


Beneath the Armor

by SillyRomantic4Ever



Series: Mandalorian Legacy [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: And Mando's called 'Mando' by some people, But refers to himself in narration as 'Din', Din and & Tal are co-guardians of Vandar, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Training (Star Wars), Gen, He's called 'Vandar' in here, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Not calling Baby 'Grogu', POV Din Djarin, POV Talia - Sometimes, Searching for Baby's people, Their task takes them to different parts of the galaxy, set after season 1, will add more tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28495434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SillyRomantic4Ever/pseuds/SillyRomantic4Ever
Summary: An Aq Vetinan foundling, a Mandalorian warrior, a skilled bounty hunter—Din Djarin is all of these things. Now a father and chief of his small Clan of two, he is tasked by his Tribe’s Armorer to search the galaxy for his adoptive son’s people. So, he partners with Talia Dewan Kex, a blood-Mando and Force-sensitive, whom he has given permission to train the little one in the ways of the Jedi. After the revelation of Talia’s long-kept secret, Din must move past it in order for them to protect the gifted child and solve the mystery behind his origins.As the Force leads them down uncertain roads and collides them with allies and enemies alike, Din risks becoming too attached to his companions. While the child lays claim to his protective side, Talia triggers in him something he has never felt before. Will he allow them to lodge themselves between his armor and his soul? Or will he return to his old ways of hunting alone even though they have grown to rely on him?
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV)/Din Djarin, Din Djarin & Original Character(s), Din Djarin & Original Female Character, father & son relationship - Relationship
Series: Mandalorian Legacy [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711477
Comments: 19
Kudos: 17





	1. Author's Note

Author’s Note

_(“Chapter 1”)_

**** SPOILERS BELOW FROM SEASON 2 OF _THE MANDALORIAN_ ****

Hello, dear Readers! It’s been a while. I hope you’re excited for my new installment of my _Mandalorian Legacy_ series. I know I am. I’ve done a lot of thinking and planning for _Beneath the Armor_ long before Season 2 of _The Mandalorian_ was released back in October (2020).

But before I get ahead of myself. The finale of S2—Luke Skywalker’s appearance!! Yeah, I was shaking with excitement!! I forced myself not to scream when I saw him! Of all Jedi for the baby to call, I’m extremely glad it was the most powerful Force-wielder living at the time!

And can we talk about the baby’s name? Grogu. Sorry. I really dislike it. I cringed when I heard it. My editor, sister, and biggest-Star-Wars-fan-I-know said (and I agree) that it sounds like a Hutt’s name. I’ve ranted and almost raged against whoever decided to call the baby that. I knew I wasn’t going to like it, so my expectations were six feet below the ground.

I apologize to those who like the name.

I christened the baby “Vandar” because there was a Jedi Master back in the days of Revan and the Old Republic who was of Yoda’s species. In _KOTOR_ , I appreciated how kind of a mentor he was. I was relieved knowing that he survived Darth Malak’s attack on Dantooine’s Jedi Enclave; however, I was sad when I learned in _KOTOR II_ that he was killed on Katarr alongside the race of Miralukas due to Darth Nihilus’ hunger to consume life. So, in Master Vandar Tokare’s memory, I named the baby from _Mando_ after him, for personal reasons. I love Old Republic history, and it has seeped into Talia, who I had name the baby back in _My Weapon, My Religion_. Therefore, I will continue to call the him “Vandar” for my stories.

And speaking of Talia Dewan Kex . . . you all ready for more interactions with her? My brain is filled with ideas and outlines. I’ve missed writing about her, and I couldn’t separate my stories from S2 no matter how hard I tried. As I watched Mando doing things on his own with the baby, I kept thinking he looked lonely. Lonely in the sense that he needed another adult companion with him during his adventures. But now that the season is over, I can finally move forward in my writing.

So, which begs the question: what am I planning to do now? Well, I’ve thought long and hard about how to continue with my series. Before S2, I decided to continue on with my original plot—which I concocted between Episodes 3 and 4 of Season 1 back in 2019. Some commentors on _Helmet of Honor_ said that my story has a life of its own and that they would continue to read if I pursue my original planning. I was and still am humbled and honored by such enthusiasm.

But after watching S2 and being introduced to its plots, I really, _really_ want to incorporate them in _Beneath the Armor_. So, I’m going to do my best to combine both my plots and the show’s. Gulp! That’s quite a task, but I’m up for a challenge! However, S2’s storylines will mostly be in the latter part of _BtA_. And, depending on how long _BtA_ is with my own plots, I may move S2’s to Part V. I don’t know. As of right now, it’s all up in the air.

My goal is to post up Chapter I of _Beneath the Armor_ by next Friday (1/8). I got a part-time job during the Christmas season, and I’m hoping I can still find time to write. With the holidays coming to an end, things will slow down there. Also, I have family visiting for the next two weeks, meaning I will have to steal away time for myself without neglecting them. Nevertheless, I’m going to do my very best to update weekly like I have done this past year. If I’m delayed, I’ll let you, dear Readers, know on my series main page.

Now, with all that being said, I want to wish you a “Happy New Year!” And enjoy the new cover page for Part IV!

xx SillyRomantic4Ever


	2. Chapter I: Familiar Territory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olarom*, dear Readers, to "Beneath the Armor"! I'm back in the writing game! Forgive the delay; it was hard to find the time to write. Enjoy!
> 
> (*pronounced: OH-lah-rom; translation: "Welcome" [greeting])

**Chapter I: Familiar Territory**

_Location: Hyperspace_

“Dang ferret!” the Mandalorian mutters under his breath. “You’re an _utreekov_ *, you son of a Gizka.” He slaps a gloved hand atop the _Razor Crest_ ’s console. The endless cyan tunnel of hyperspace swirls before him while a red beacon on his navigation computer flashes its mocking eye at him.

 _(_ * _pronounced: oo-TREE-kov; translation: “fool” / “idiot”; literal translation: “empty head”)_

He had been fiddling around on his terminal when he absentmindedly turned on his tracking system. His nav-computer flickered on, reminding him that he could have figured out where an Onderonian ship—specifically the _Alabaster Star_ —had been all this time. Much to his annoyance, it re-informed him that he still has his best tracker hidden away in a footlocker belonging to a certain female, half-blood Mandalorian.

When the woman left him and his kid on Shimia a couple of weeks earlier, he was determined to keep tabs on her. At the time, he told himself it was for the sake of his adoptive son, who dotes on her as if she is his actual mother. And the bounty hunter was quite proud of this forethought. After all, the tracker was how he discovered that the kid’s nanny-turned-mentor was on Galidraan two days ago.

 _And I could’ve used it to find the little womp-rat,_ he simmers to himself.

Instead of waiting for that blasted astromech droid to get in touch with the _Crest_ , he had the means to locate his kid with just the flick of a switch. But after finding out that his companion had shared the child’s gift since the first day he met her, he was bombarded with betrayal and resentment to the extent that he could not think of anything else. She had exposed herself to be a Jedi, a Force-sensitive being with incredible powers, just like the child. Her true identity had cut deep in places he did not realize that he allowed her to touch with her compassion and sincerity. Only her story about her past and the trauma she was still wrestling within herself had softened his resolve to never trust her again.

But several months ago, a bond had formed between them on Cholganna, and like the stubborn, armored Mando that he was, he had fought against it, hard. It grew—and has continued to do so—despite his efforts to resist it. To resist _her_. Yet, even he has to admit that they are almost the same: foundlings who had drifted from one family to another. And she had watched her people hunted down and exterminated by the Empire. As did he.

Nevertheless, Jedi past or Force skills—he made the foolish mistake of letting his emotions cloud his thinking. Not only is he a seasoned warrior, but he is also a level-headed bounty hunter with a distinguished reputation. He had acted like an amateur, and he should have known better.

 _Haar’chak_ * _, Djarin! You’re losing your touch._

 _(_ * _pronounced: HAR-chak; translation: “Damn it!”)_

He glances at the nav-computer. The red dot representing the _Alabaster Star_ shows that it is already on Arvala-7. He wonders if he should tell the ship’s owner about his tracker so he can get it back. Yet, as he thinks about it, he does not want her to have any knowledge of what he did. He would like to avoid another breach of trust between them. Especially since he is still getting use to the idea of her hailing from a group of enemy-sorcerers—even though this particular Force-wielder is not his adversary.

With his thoughts now focused on his Jedi-ally, he finds himself surprised that she has not joined him in the cockpit yet. The _Crest_ will exit hyperspace in less than twenty minutes, and he figured she would want to be here when they finally reached their destination. His internal clock tells him that it is almost mid-morning, and she—like him—is an early riser.

 _Maybe she’s meditating,_ he reasons while rising from his pilot’s chair. Though he has been given a general summary of her Force, the idea of meditating on it still perplexes him. _I think it would’ve been easier to swallow if it’d been sorcery and incantations rather than this Force. And its midi-chlorians,_ he huffs to himself. His companion’s explanation of that invisible entity a couple of days ago has been helpful, really. Yet even he knows there is a lot for him and his kid to understand.

He exits the cockpit, intent on finding her—which should not be difficult since his ship is roughly five times smaller than hers. He climbs down his metal ladder to the main compartment, and his brain wanders to the _Alabaster_ _Star_ ’s features. When he saw it last, it seemed like an impressive vessel with a spacious cockpit and a handful of private living-quarters. Perhaps when they reunite with the baby and her annoying astrodroid, he can take a look around inside.

His gray cloak floats in the air as he descends the ladder. The lights in the main compartment, he notices, have been turned on, signaling to him that his companion is awake. There is a sense of serenity and comfort swirling in the cold air, and he knows that is all because of a female Jedi.

After his feet hit the floor, he turns to his left, which makes him realize he forgot to close the doors to his arsenal. His various assortment of pistols, blaster rifles, and detonators gleam with danger and security in the soft yellow light. He feels the corner of his mouth twitch upward. A Mandalorian can never own too many weapons.

With a simple push of a button on his gauntlet, the doors to his arsenal close shut. The _Crest_ ’s engines purr with life, gently rattling his belongings as if giving them energy. He then swivels himself to his right and looks past silver crates and a faded-green cargo net hanging from the ceiling.

He takes a step forward, and there, safely tucked away deep in the heart of his ship, is Talia. She is sitting cross-legged on the dirty floor with her back to him. Her body, wrapped in a gray outer tunic, is as still as a statue. When he moves closer, he can see her shoulders lift up, telling him that her lungs are filled with the same filtered oxygen as his. Objects, like a random screw and a hydro-spanner and even a couple of pebbles, are floating around her, keeping her protected in an invisible, Force-like bubble.

 _Yep, she’s meditating alright,_ he says to himself. _Whatever that really means. Strange, she’s not humming like the last time._

Her dark brown hair hangs behind her and is braided, reminding him of a tight strand of rope. She must have done that this morning after she woke up. The hood of her outer tunic is down, and lying beside her is a black leather belt, which features a holstered DE-10 pistol and her lightsaber. He had seen her remove the belt and her weapons before she retired the night before.

Mechanically, he glances over his shoulder at his sleeping compartment behind him. The door has been raised up, revealing a neatly folded blanket and his cramped, hard slab of a mattress. Since yesterday, he and Talia have taken turns resting in that coffin-like closet for hours at a time. Talia had a sleeping mat that she used on Galidraan, but it got destroyed by a remnant of Imperial troopers. A satchel and backpack were the only items belonging to her that survived the attack.

It was a shame the mat did not get saved because, during his last sleep-shift, he was able to detect the faintest hint of lemons—which is not exactly a bad thing. The scent just reminded him that he is sharing his compartment, a rare instance indeed. It seems that his practical arrangement with Talia is the only way for him to actually get a woman in his bed—a pathetic excuse if somebody asked him.

 _And a stupid thought_ , he scolds himself just as an image suddenly conjures in his mind. It depicts him and Talia, in a non-platonic way, on a plush bed with mountains of blankets and pillows. _Where in the name of Concordia did_ that _come from?!_ he demands. He clenches his teeth and forces the preposterous notion out of his brain.

Shaking his head to rid himself of this . . . inappropriate and insane, mental picture, he clears his throat so hard it feels slightly strained afterwards. The back of his neck heats up as Talia inclines her head towards him. He had discovered that the Force heightens her senses and allows her to feel other people’s emotions, which explained to him how she had been able to read him in the past. He hopes she is too engrossed with her meditating to figure out what had just passed through his mind right now.

To help him brush away his embarrassment, he straightens his shoulders. His chest expands behind his breastplate of Beskar. He watches as the objects floating around Talia return to their original places. She grabs her weapons’ belt, and he takes that as his cue to break the calming silence between them.

“We’ll be getting out of hyperspace in less than twenty.”

“Thank you,” she replies, her elegant accent sounding sincere. She fastens her belt around her petite waist. Her dull silver and gold lightsaber hilt flashes at him, reminding him of the power it contains within its simple-looking design.

He is about to return to his cockpit when Talia comments, “To be honest, I’m impatient to get back to my ship. I can do with a change of clothes. And a shower.” She chuckles to herself, and he once again has to discipline his brain from making her words come to life in another indecent image.

_Stop it!_

The heat at the back of his neck begins to flare up again, but he wills it to go away. Talia glances his way and sends him a soft smile. Some shorter strands of her hair have escaped her braid and are hanging beside her cheek. When he says nothing in response, he notices she lifts a brow at him. Her dark brown eyes, tired with circles underneath them, silently ask him if there is more that he needs to tell her.

He combs through his internal archives for something to say. Before he can stop himself, he remarks in an amused tone, “A shower already? It’s only been a couple of days. You almost sound like a pampered princess, Dewan.”

At this, Talia rises to her feet and faces him. A spark of rebellion flares in her gaze, and she scrunches her eyebrows. The look she gives him would be cold if her lips were not fighting back a smile.

His attention is momentarily seized by the long gold chain hanging around her neck. Its pendant is not the emerald gemstone he had once thought it was. It is actually the remainder of a green, Force-sensitive crystal from her very first lightsaber when she was training to be a Jedi. Though damaged, she still has a special connection to it. Even the baby seems drawn to it whenever she wears it.

“I’m _not_ a princess, Djarin,” Talia tersely replies as she crosses her arms in front of her. A hint of her Onderonian accent had emerged when she pronounced his surname, smoothly rolling it off her tongue.

He smirks behind his helmet. “Whatever you say,” he quips.

This earns him a saucy smile, which makes him feel a tiny bit nostalgic for the weeks he spent on her homeworld. They had both been so comfortable around each other back then—with the baby, too, of course. After she walked out on him and the kid, the Mandalorian had found himself missing their comradery. Then her past came to light, and while he wrestled to accept her reasons behind it, he did not think they would be able to forage anything remotely similar to that again. Yet, a part of him is glad that he was wrong. It is nice to be in familiar territory with her once more.

“In my defense,” Talia interrupts his train of thought, “I’d been away from my ship a few days before you arrived.”

“Fine. I believe you,” he answers in a flat tone, yet he still cannot stop the smirk from playing on his lips.

Her argument settles in his head like a brick, reminding him that he still does not know why she left two weeks ago or where she had gone after reuniting with her friend, Daggeron Locke, on Nar Shaddaa. He had felt resentful towards her for choosing to drop everything for an old Rebel contact rather than stay with the baby that she had promised to be a nanny to.

“I haven’t gotten to ask you,” he ventures in his normal, raspy voice. “Why’d you leave, really?” When she tilts her head at him confused, he prompts, “You know, a couple of weeks back. You met up with Locke and helped him with his personal errand. You said it was disappointing.”

Talia’s eyes widen with recognition. “Daggeron,” she begins, “is a Force-sensitive Duros. But he wasn’t part of the Jedi Order.”

In an instant, he pictures a dark, green-skinned alien with a domed head, a sharp jawline, and big eyes as red as rubies.

“So, he wasn’t trained.”

“No. The Force kind of faded within him,” she explains as she settles atop a silver cargo box. “I met him during the Rebellion. He was one of the first fighters assigned to my covert operations team. We were called the Mosaics.”

The name strikes him as unique, making him give Talia a slow nod. “Different people from different backgrounds coming together to fight the Empire?” he figures aloud, liking the concept behind the name.

The smile that spreads across her lips is mixed with fondness and sorrow. “Yes. And different skillsets, too.” She takes in a deep breath through her nostrils while her gaze fixates on his visor. “The Force gave Dagg extremely quick reflexes and sharp instincts,” she reveals. “He was one of the Rebellion’s top fighters because he was unknowingly using the Force to help him survive. When I met him, I could sense it flowing through him. I gave him some meditating exercises and guidelines to help him better cope with it. After he retired from the Rebellion, we’ve tried to stay in contact.”

 _Giving tips. Sounds just like her,_ he muses to himself. _She can’t not help another Force-sensitive in need._ He then thinks about her Mustafar mission and how determined she was to rescue the gifted people who were experimented on by the Empire.

“I’ll take it your . . . errand with Locke—” He has no idea what to call her departure other than ‘abandonment.’ “—had to do with the Force. You said it wasn’t your secret to tell.”

“I wasn’t just protecting Dagg’s ability,” she defends. “I, I was protecting mine, too.”

Against his will, Din feels his back stiffen at the reminder. Within seconds, tension strangles the air between them. He cannot stop himself from crossing his arms in front of him, as if doing so will protect him from harm. The lights above bounce off his silver gauntlets while Talia’s dark eyes flutter to the ground in shame. He knows she still feels guilty for keeping her past from him all these months, and a petty part of him is glad. Although he had forgiven her and understands why it had been so hard for her to trust him completely, the inside of his chest feels tender and bruised. After all, it has only been a couple of days.

Not wanting this awkwardness to strain their patched-up companionship, he drops his arms, allowing them to hang by his sides. “Was he in trouble?” he asks in a neutral tone.

“No.” Talia keeps her gaze fixed on the dirt-covered floor. “A friend of a friend met someone who was a Force-sensitive. A little girl named Zenya Talak,” she explains, finally looking at him. “Her father’s been moving them around since she was born. He . . . he needs help. They both do.

“The Force, what she can do with it—they scare him. And I’m sure Zenya’s picked up on that. I can only imagine the fear that surrounds her on a daily basis.”

 _I bet you can,_ he silently tells her. _You probably experienced that most of your life._ After her master, Zebedee Asher, was killed along with the rest of the Jedi, he was surprised to learn that Talia did not go into absolute exile out of utter fear and sorrow. He is sure most people, gifted or not, would have done so.

“They’ve been on the run from the Empire,” she continues. “Dagg’s contact told him that they needed . . . well, guidance.”

“So, he got in touch with you,” he supplies. After she nods in confirmation, he asks, “What were you planning to do once you met Zenya?”

He could not stop a hint of wariness from coloring his raspy voice. By that point in time, she had her hands full being his kid’s nanny. Knowing Talia, she would have tried to train this Zenya. And where would that have left him and the kid? She must have known there was no way he would welcome two more people on the _Crest_. It is hard enough co-living with her!

“I don’t know,” she confesses, shrugging her shoulders. “I just went because a little girl needed help. I wanted to tell you, but—”

“I know,” he briskly interrupts.

He admits he sounded sharp, but that was so she will not focus on why she did not confide in him. However, Talia seems to have mistaken his response, for she tightly presses her lips together as if she has been reprimanded. He inwardly sighs, kicking himself for his thoughtlessness.

Believing that it will be best if he re-directs her attention, he softly asks, “So, where _did_ you go? You know, after Nar Shaddaa.”

“Corellia.”

His eyebrows shoot up. That planet is in the Core Worlds, more than a few regions away from Hutt Space. No Imperial would be caught dead so deep in New Republic territory.

“But we were too late,” Talia reveals, which does not come as a surprise to him. “Saul—Zenya’s father—fled the planet before we arrived. From what Dagg and I gathered, Saul was having Zenya use her powers to help him win at gambling.” Subtly, she rolls her eyes, and he wants to shake his head at how dishonorable this father sounds. “And, well,” she sighs, “let’s just say the wrong people figured it out and went after them. We tracked them down to the Mid Rim. To Lantillies.”

 _That planet just joined the New Republic,_ he remembers.

When Talia does not add anything else, he presses, “And?”

Two seconds pass before she says quietly, “And . . . we lost them.”

A frown forms on her dark pink lips, and he finds himself biting back a retort. _Sounds to me a bounty hunter would’ve been helpful at that time,_ he silently tells her, his inner voice as hard as Beskar. _You should’ve just let me go with you, Talia._

“Dagg and I ended up going our separate ways,” she reports, and he notices she does not mention where Locke went. “I was about to head back to you and the youngling, but I wanted to go to Galidraan . . .”

Her voice trails off as she tilts her head to the side. He already knows why she travelled to that mountainous planet. It was so she could see if there were more Jedi relics buried with her master’s instructor, Koa-Li Serro. But she had once again been disappointed, for Serro’s grave proved to be empty, save for his bones.

“Which reminds me . . .” He hears Talia remark, breaking into his thoughts as he remembers her lightsaber cutting down stormtroopers in the snow. “Din, how did you know I was there?”

His mouth suddenly feels dry when she speaks his first name. He still is not used to the fact that she knows it, let alone calls him by it now. He fights the urge to shuffle on his feet, so he lifts up his chin an inch or two instead. He had been hoping to avoid this very topic.

“Where?” he asks as nonchalant as he can, yet even he knows he should have just kept his mouth shut.

To his dismay, Talia squints her eyes at him suspiciously. “On Galidraan,” she prompts in a tone that reminds him of a teacher waiting for her student to admit that he is guilty of breaking a class rule.

He feels as if a spotlight is shining down on him, heating his silver armor and cooking him ever so slightly. He reminds himself that he has no intention of admitting that he has a tracker stashed away inside her ship. So, he deadpans, “I’m a bounty hunter, Talia: finding people is my job.”

Satisfied with his response, he turns on his heel and tries not to appear too eager to end this conversation as he walks to his metal ladder. But a soft chuckle immediately freezes him in place.

“Oh, I believe you’re good, Djarin,” Talia calls out to him good-naturedly, and he can imagine the playful smile spreading across her lips. “But there’s no way you’re _that_ good.”

There is a challenge hidden inside her teasing remark, and it is enough for him to face her again. He is on the verge of defending his skills and reputation when he notices that Talia’s smile morphs into a thoughtful line. Her usually smooth forehead is wrinkled while her eyes seem far away.

“You accused me of bugging your ship,” she reminds him, and he already knows where her line of thinking will lead her. “Did you do that with me?” she asks, her gaze now focused on his visor.

“No,” he automatically replies. Though he is relieved that his answer is an honest one, he still feels uncomfortable when he thinks about the tracker that he planted in her footlocker.

“But you did _something_ ,” she points out, eyeing him up and down. His resolve hardens, and he is proud that he is as motionless as mountain. “Come now, _ner burc’ya_ *,” she coaxes with a shrewd smile. “I sense you’re not being entirely honest with me.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

Knowing he cannot hide from the Force if she decides to use it on him, he states in his bounty hunter tone, “We’ll be arriving at Arvala-7 in less than fifteen minutes, okay?”

With that, he makes a bee-line for the ladder, not caring if his quick movements rival lightning. His gloved hands tightly grip the foot-bars. Before he is halfway up, he hears Talia call out, “You know that this isn’t over, right?”

 _And thank Mandalore that it is now,_ he thinks as he climbs up to his cockpit.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Outer Rim Territory_

_Location: Arvala-7_

He appreciates that his companion does not join him until a couple of minutes before the _Crest_ exits hyperspace. He is not sure what she has been doing, but he refuses to ask. If he can, he would rather avoid renewing their last subject.

The blue vortex of fast-traveling morphs into the ebony background of space. Countless of diamond stars twinkle at him; they look as if they have been scattered across his midnight surroundings by a careless deity.

Looming right in front of him is the all too familiar world of Arvala-7. The surface of the desert-like planet appears to be wrinkled, but he knows that is because of its unforgiving ridges and slot canyons. Arvala-7 glows various shades of orange, from sherbert to amber to rust. He did not expect to return to this desolate place again. At least, not without his friend, Kuiil. For reasons unknown to him, the Ugnaught had made Arvala-7 with its sharp rocks and relentless heat his home. Has it only been less than five days since he left this planet with Kuiil and IG-11 in tow?

A rustle of fabric pulls him from his thoughts. His hands steer the _Crest_ closer to the orange sphere as he senses Talia standing behind him. He spares her a glance and notes that she is wearing her gray hood. Most of her diamond-shaped face is hidden in shadow, yet he is able to see the firm line that her lips make.

Facing forward so he can concentrate on the landing sequences, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing really,” she replies, her accent flat.

While he waits for her to explain herself, he flips a switch on this console. He feels Arvala-7’s gravity beginning to pull the ship towards it.

“If I didn’t know where we were going,” he hears her comment, “I’d almost believe that’s Tatooine.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward at the distaste painting her confession, but he makes sure it does not grow into a full grin. He knows it will be insensitive of him. Talia, he remembers, practically hates Tatooine. After her master, Zeb, was killed thirty years ago, she had been stranded on that desert planet for months trying to earn enough money so she could return home to Onderon. Though Talia had not gone into detail about her time there, he would be willing to bet fifty credits that she had bad memories associated with Tatooine that did not have to do with her mourning Zeb and her squad of trusty ARC troopers.

“Do you think R6 has already landed here?” she wonders aloud.

He is about to say that her ship has been on Arvala-7 for the past twenty minutes, but he holds his tongue just in time. Admitting this will reveal the presence of his tracker. Instead, he suggests Talia contact her astrodroid and ask that it send them the _Alabaster Star_ ’s coordinates.

“And you better buckle up,” he advises. “We’re going to be entering the atmosphere soon.”

While he guides the _Crest_ closer to the planet, he hears Talia settle into her seat behind him on his left. He presses buttons and initiates landing as she hails her precious bucket of bolts via her Imagecaster. He half-listens to their conversation, and in less than a minute, his console beeps, indicating that he just received the _Star_ ’s location.

“We’ll see you soon, R6,” Talia says, ending the connection.

The blackness of space transitions into the azure sky of Arvala-7. The ship shutters, but his hold on the controls is firm. He flies them over carrot-colored ranges, rocky and creased from the searing sun and howling wind. When he passes over Kuiil’s homestead, his muscles tense up. He still cannot rid himself of the guilt buried in his chest for convincing the Ugnaught to get involved with his problems.

As he guides the _Crest_ to R6’s location, Talia clears her throat. He hums in response, to which she says, “I, uh . . . I’ve never had the chance to ask you . . .” Her voice drifts off, and he waits. “Are you all right with me calling you by your given name? Or do you prefer ‘Mando’?”

He jerks his head in her direction yet keeps his eyes focused ahead of him. _Where’s this coming from?_ he wonders to himself.

“What?” he blurts out.

“It’s just,” she hurriedly explains, “you’ve kept your name private since we’ve met. And I didn’t know it until that stormtrooper shouted it on Galidraan. I should’ve asked you sooner if you minded me calling you ‘Din Djarin.’ But it just slipped out, and you haven’t said anything—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, amused at how quickly words are pouring out from her. She only talks like this whenever she is nervous or embarrassed—which are two emotions that she must not feel a lot because how she deals with them is almost comical.

“Really? Are you sure?” she double-checks as the _Crest_ approaches the mercenary compound where he first found the baby.

“It’s fine,” he repeats. “I just don’t want your droids calling me that.”

“How about ‘Master Djarin’?” she tries.

“I’m not their master. You are.”

He flies the ship over the _Alabaster Star_ , which is parked in a wide canyon about half-a-mile west of the compound. Its long frame gleams a grayish-white in the sun. All he needs to do now is find a place to land the _Crest_.

“But our goal is the same,” he hears Talia reason behind him. “We’re all going to be traveling together. They’ll serve you as they do me.”

“It’s not the same,” he argues. “Let them know they’re only allowed to call me ‘Mando’ like everyone else.”

He makes sure there is a sense of finality in his tone, and he is grateful that Talia does not push the subject further.

As he searches for a secluded area to settle his ship, a breathy voice inside his head hisses at him. _What’s this, Mando?_ She _gets to call you by your real name?_ _That’s not fair! Getting soft in your old age?_ It sounds a lot like Xi’an, but he pushes it aside.

In the past week, his birth name has become known to more people than he wanted, including Moff Gideon. While he was on Nevarro, suffering from a severe concussion, he had found himself looking forward to finally confiding in Talia his name. He blames that sentimental thought on his injury.

Traveling to Galidraan and getting entangled in a heated argument with her changed his mind despite the pounding headache. Out of bitterness, he planned on keeping it from her for a while—until that son of a Bantha stormtrooper yelled it across the forest so loud that the entire planet could hear it.

When Talia first said his name, he was not sure how to react. At the time, he had been swallowing her huge secret of being a Force-sensitive and felt angered that she used it. But now, after all that the two of them have been through, both together and apart, it only seems right that she calls him ‘Din Djarin.’ Though he had grown to dislike hearing it after his parents were killed, there was something about how Talia says it that does not bother him so much. Maybe it is because her elegant Coruscant accent makes it sound sophisticated while her Onderonian one rolls the _r_ off her tongue so nicely. Combined, his names sound personal, if that is even possible.

He tears his thoughts away from delving into this topic further. He needs to focus on landing the ship. With sure hands, he steers the _Crest_ in a circle so he can double-back and review the environment. He hears Talia unbuckle her seatbelt and shuffle over to him.

“Looking for a canyon?” she asks, standing close to him so she can have a better view of the front window and beyond.

“I think right there will work instead,” he replies. He nods at a ledge inside a ravine large enough for his ship to settle.

Instead of returning to her seat, he senses Talia brace her stance beside him as he lowers the ship onto the ledge. The _Crest_ shudders on its landing gear, and then it heaves a sigh when it settles. He observes that its top will be visible to anyone walking the ground-level, but since he is not sneaking up on a quarry like his first visit here, he does not see the point of keeping his arrival discreet.

After switching off the engines, he leans forward so he can survey his surroundings with a hunter’s eye. The canyon below, he notes, is less than fifty feet wide and roughly forty feet deep. Its walls are layered with pebbles and grooves, and down below are boulders, loose dirt, and sun-dried shrubs. He estimates that the _Star_ is less than a quarter of a mile south of them, which is fine by him. He can do with a five-minute walk to stretch his legs.

He pushes his pilot’s chair back and finds that Talia has disappeared from her seat. When he slides away from the console, he sees that she is already heading towards the cockpit’s exit. _Someone’s not impatient,_ he muses to himself, yet who is he to judge? The thought of reuniting with his kid after a long forty-eight-hour separation quickens his movements as he climbs down the ladder to the main compartment.

With a loud thump his boots hit the floor. He walks over to where he left his jet-pack and picks it up. The Beskar-made device gleams silver like the rest of his armor. As he pushes aside his cloak so he can strap the jet-pack behind him, he catches Talia throwing her old leather satchel across her shoulders. He then eyes his Amban sniper rifle where it is leaning against the wall. It had come in handy when he ventured across the planet all those fateful months ago, yet things should be fairly calm now. His blaster pistol, gadgets, and Talia’s lightsaber should be enough to stave off any unexpected trouble.

Deciding to leave his rifle on the ship, he presses a button on his right gauntlet to open up the side-hatch. Sunshine streams through the door, revealing traces of dried mud on the floor, compliments of boots wet from Galidraan’s snowy mountains. Once his eyes adjust to the bright lighting, Din can see the canyon wall directly opposite of the ship.

He is about to maneuver around Talia while she puts on her backpack when she says, “Why don’t you take a new set of clothes with you?”

He stops and turns his head towards her. “Are you saying that what I’m wearing now stinks?”

“No,” she patiently replies, straightening her gray hood atop her head so her braid can hang over her right shoulder. “I just thought that—like me—you’d want to freshen up on my ship. I have an extra room you can use, to rest and shower in, if you want to.”

The idea is more appealing than he wants to admit. Hot running water and gallons of it, a thick mattress with actual pillows, and absolute privacy for him to remove his helmet and armor are things he has been greatly missing since before returning to Nevarro. But he would rather not admit that to his companion.

So, he merely turns around and retrieves a leather satchel of his own from one of his storage compartments. It acts as his over-night bag and contains all of his necessities, plus an extra detonator or two.

After adjusting the bag across his shoulders, he follows Talia out of the _Crest_ and into the sun-heated air. Above, the sky is a rich blue, a stark contrast to the orangey terrain. The desert climate warms him up in less than a minute, and he can feel his tunic grow damp.

He commands the ship’s ramp to retract and the side-hatch to close with another press of a button. Then, he strides to the perimeter of the ledge, which is only three paces away from the _Crest_ itself. Careful with his footing, he peers over the side and gazes at the bottom of the canyon. The ledge is neither a straight nor smooth ravine wall; instead, there are boulders and smaller niches helping to support it. He calculates he and Talia are over twenty feet from the ground below, and he is thankful he decided to bring his jet-pack with him. It will make going down easier for him.

 _But you only have one,_ a realistic part of him murmurs. _What about_ her _?_

He glances at his companion who seems oblivious to this minor dilemma. She is using a hand to fan herself, and she looks uncomfortable in her long-sleeved shirt, trousers, and knee-high boots, all black and made for much colder climate. He bets her outer-tunic is not helping her stay cool either despite the fact that she is using its hood to hide from the harsh sun.

Should he carry her and use his jet-pack to fly them both to the canyon’s floor? Talia is petite and slim, and he knows from picking her up in the past that she is not very heavy. Stars! He flew them from the ground to a transport ship on Dxun nearly a month ago, so doing the same thing with her now should not be a problem. His jet-pack can take the extra weight.

However, he suddenly feels awkward at the prospect of following through with this idea. Back on Dxun and even on Cholganna after their Nexu fight, Talia had been unconscious both times as he transferred her to safety. The idea of doing it now, when she is completely awake, with her being _that_ close to him, makes him want to hide behind a wall of solid Beskar.

 _Stop worrying,_ the realistic part of his brain chides him. _It’ll be fine._

Choosing to listen to his inner voice, Din opens his mouth to voice the suggestion when Talia removes her hood and stares to the south. The sun brightens her dark brown hair, making it look a soft caramel-color. She closes her eyes and slightly tilts her head to the side as if she is listening to something. But he hears nothing, not even the wind.

“What is it?” he asks, laying a hand on his holstered pistol just in case. Maybe she is using the Force to enhance her hearing, and perhaps she can detect something or someone approaching from the south.

For a few seconds, silence greets him instead of an elegant accent. So, he stretches his own hearing and focuses on every sound nearby, which is just more silence. He is on the verge of repeating his question when he notices a small smile spreading across Talia’s lips.

“I can sense him. Vandar,” she whispers, her smile growing at the mere mention of the child that she christened. “And he can feel me, too.”

“Is he okay?” he wonders as he drops his hand from his blaster. It still amazes him that her Force-bond with his kid allows them to not only sense each other’s presence, but it can also defy how much space is between them, whether it be miles or planets away.

“He’s fine,” she answers, her eyes still closed. “He’s excited.”

The corner of his mouth rises at the report. He studies Talia’s calm expression; the sun’s rays seem to make her tanned skin glow. Her cheeks are rosy from the desert heat. Then, her dark brows scrunch together, and her forehead creases. She seems to be concentrating, but on what, he has no idea.

“What are you doing?” he quietly murmurs, hoping his question will not distract her too much.

“I’m trying to let Vandar know that I’m coming,” she says. A moment passes before she opens her eyes again.

“You can do that?” he asks in his normal voice.

She must have heard the disbelief coating his words because she glances at him. There is no irritation in her expression, only patience and kindness, as she replies, “My Force-bond with the youngling can let us communicate. I was able to do that with my master.”

“Can you let him know we’ll be there in less than ten minutes?” he wonders, his tone on the edge of teasing.

Talia gives him an amused smile. “As far as I know, it doesn’t entirely work like that, Din. We can pass on small messages to each other, but they’re mostly relayed through feelings. Nothing too elaborate or specific. But . . .” She runs her teeth over her bottom lip. “I guess, after disciplined training, it’s possible to talk to another Jedi through the Force. I’ve just never had the chance to do it because, you know . . .”

Her eyes veer towards the canyon, yet he suspects she is not looking at anything in particular. He knows what she means, and he refuses to press her for more information. Ever since Order 66, Talia has not been able to train under or collaborate with another Force-sensitive who was instructed in the teachings of her Jedi Order. From what he gathered, she had learned the extent of her powers and explored its capabilities on her own while using some Jedi holocrons. And based on how uncertain she had sounded a minute ago, he has a strong feeling that she thinks herself unqualified to be his source of information about the Force.

 _But she’s all I have,_ he thinks to himself. _I was way over my head with this Force stuff until she explained some of it to me._

He has the urge to tell her this, yet the words will not seem to form on his tongue. Giving encouragement and comfort are things he is not known for. Or well-practiced in. So, he scraps the idea and gestures to the ledge and the canyon below.

“My jet-pack can carry us both down,” he begins but is interrupted by Talia who lifts a hand in his direction. The way she does it reminds him of royalty: proper and authoritative.

“Don’t worry about me, _ner burc’ya_ *,” she replies. “I’ll meet you down there.”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha)_

Before he can ask how she expects to safely land a nearly twenty-five-foot drop, Talia leaps over the ledge. The sight astonishes him for half-a-second, and he instinctively follows her, expecting to have to catch her in mid-air. Gravity tries to greedily pull him down while the sensation of falling pumps him with adrenaline. Like lightning, he turns on his jet-pack and is ready to dive after her until he sees that she has leapt to one of the smaller ledges in the ravine’s side. Her lightsaber dangles from her belt and flashes in the sun.

As he commands his jet-pack to descend, he releases a breath that he did not know he had been holding. He still is not used to her Force abilities. How could he have forgotten that he has already seen her make impossible jumps and landings back on Galidraan?

The sound of his activated jet-pack echoes across the canyon, stirring up loose dirt into the hot air. He watches as Talia jumps from her tiny perch about fifteen feet high, and her petite body does a single somersault before she gracefully lands in a crouch-like position at the same time his boots touch the pebbly ground.

He turns off his jet-pack and just stares at her as she rises to her full height of five-foot-four. They are safe from the sun’s unrelenting rays, yet her eyes are sparkling from the quick descent. His gaze lingers on her loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid earlier as they gently brush against her left cheek.

“What?” she asks him before dropping her gaze to her outer tunic, self-consciously checking to see if there is something wrong with her appearance.

“Nothing,” he curtly answers. He nods at the canyon’s southern passageway and says, “Your ship’s that way.”

He does not wait for her to reply; instead, he strides down the walled path at a brisk pace. Half of his mind replays Talia’s Force-jumps, and he is amazed at how humble she was afterwards. Like his kid, she has so much power flowing through her, yet she chooses to be discreet and modest about it. She is either the most selfless person he knows or the most naïve. The former idea is more likely.

 _She can definitely teach the kid a thing or two,_ he decides as he leads them towards the _Alabaster Star_. And he feels a half-smile tug at his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, what'cha think? Let me know!


	3. Chapter II: Too Many Droids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay! I just wanted to let you know that, for practical reasons, I had to change the general look of Talia’s ship. So, both the exterior and interior that Mando has seen in "Helmet of Honor" are now different. I’ll explain why in my author’s note after the chapter. At some point, I will re-write what the Alabaster Star looks like in "HoH" and a little bit in this story’s first chapter so everything is consistent. But for now, enjoy Chapter II!

**Chapter II: Too Many Droids**

The trek to the _Alabaster Star_ is taking longer than he would have liked. Instead of the trip on foot being five minutes and a straight shot, it is taking nearly three times the amount of time with winding trails and unpredicted obstacles. The canyon’s path is not as smooth as it appeared back at the _Crest_ , for its sides are sloped, making the ground uneven and harder to walk on. He can feel loose rocks and pebbles beneath his leather boots, trying to make him slip. So, paying more attention to his footing than normal is syphoning up his time.

And to add to the negatives of their journey, there are wide ravines _inside_ the canyon. The cracks in the ground plunge deeper into the arid depths of Arvala-7, and they are sometimes too expansive for any average living being to simply jump across. If he did not have the forethought to bring his jet-pack with him . . . well, then he would have been forced to swallow more than a gallon’s worth of pride asking Talia for help.

While he uses his jet-pack to thwart these ravines within the main canyon, his fellow Mando has been using the Force to jump to the other side or to a nearby ledge where she can safely cross. There has been one instance when Talia has had to swiftly Force-run along the wall of the canyon in order for her to reach her destination. He remembers his eyes widening at the sight; that was a skillset he has not seen before. So far, Talia has not encountered a ravine too wide for her to conquer, and he is still impressed by how modest she is whenever she lands out of harm’s way. Her stride is graceful yet firm; the absence of a swagger in her steps tells him that she is just doing what needs to be done. But watching her rely on the Force to help her leap unbelievably far and high fascinates him while astounding his brain—after all, these abilities are defying basic physics.

Din activates his jet-pack and flies over another large crack in the earth. Over the spewing noise of its thrusters, he can still hear his cloak flap in the air. A slight wind sweeps through the canyon. It sounds hollow and lonely before it grows both in volume and intensity. He feels himself being steered too far to his left so he orders his jet-pack to the right.

When it obeys, a small sense of satisfaction expands his chest. His Tribe’s Armorer had instructed him to go over drills according to the instructions of the Rising Phoenix. His jet-pack will not respond to his commands well if he chooses to ignore her counsel, which is something he refuses to do. He had every intention of reacquainting himself with the Phoenix training after he recovered from his Nevarro injuries; however, his detour to Galidraan and Talia’s secrets coming to light have pre-occupied him until now.

 _I guess there’s one good thing about these canyons,_ he figures as his boots plant him on top of solid ground again. _At least they’re giving me some practice._

He glances behind him just in time to see Talia smoothly land from another Force-jump. The sun is hidden from view, casting cool shadows within the canyon, yet he notices that the crown of her head is laced with perspiration. A trickle of sweat trails from her hair to her cheek, and she wipes it away with her black sleeve. When she releases a tired breath, a sympathetic half-smile twitches on his lips. He knows how she feels. His own clothes are damp from their unexpected exercise, and his calf muscles are starting to burn from the sloping canyon’s floor.

“I’m sure we’re almost there,” he remarks, facing forward again. He sees that their path is attached to the ravine’s side, and he thanks Mandalore that it looks relatively flat from here on out. When Talia stands beside him, he points ahead of them and adds, “It should be just around the corner.”

“That feels about right,” she says. “I can sense Vandar’s presence growing stronger the closer we get.”

Though her remark is something he is still unused to hearing—feelings and sensing things beyond normal human ability—Din simply nods at her. What else can he do? And how do people respond to that?

Without another word, he marches forward, leading the way south. His stomach clenches with hunger, reminding him that he skipped his morning meal.

“It’ll be nice getting back to my ship,” he hears Talia comment. Her tone is conversational, telling him that she is trying to ease the eerie silence lingering in the canyon.

Deciding to humor her, he queries, “Corellian, right?”

“Yes.”

He hums to himself, remembering the _Alabaster Star_ ’s flat saucer-like body. Those ship-building Corellians sure do favor that particular design.

“What model is it?”

“YT-2000.”

The name triggers a piece of information in his mental archives, and what he can recall makes him stop walking. He turns to his companion and asks, “Wasn’t that model known to be a little touchy?”

Talia gives him a slow nod. “Yes, but my mechanics and R6 made sure all of the kinks were removed from the _Star_.”

“The 2000’s were also discontinued,” he points out. He is now beginning to wonder why her family would gift her with a ship that not only had a limited production time but also a reputation of mechanical problems.

“That was because the Corellian Engineering Corporation wanted to make way for their next model,” Talia answers. She cocks a dark eyebrow at him before adding, “I know it’s very new to me compared to you and the _Crest_ , but the _Star_ is a reliable ship. Everyone who worked on it on Onderon made sure of it, Din.”

Studying her calm expression, he does not think she is offended by what he said. Yet he detects a hint of protectiveness in her elegant accent. So, not wanting to stir up trouble, he says, “All right,” before striding forward again.

He turns the next corner, and there, lying over a hundred feet away is the _Alabaster Star_. Its whitish-gray plating looks dull in the canyon’s shade, but it is still an agreeable color. For some reason, the _Star_ seems bigger than when he first saw it on Shimia. Maybe that is because it had been sitting in a wide, open field instead of being crammed in a slot canyon.

As he senses Talia joining him, he quickly scans over the Corellian ship. He is facing the tail-end of the _Star_ , which gives him a good view of its horizontal, sublight thrusters. He wonders what class of hyperdrive Talia has installed inside; she told him weeks ago that she and R6 had made sure it was fast.

Beside him, he hears Talia breathe a sigh of relief before striding past him, no doubt eager to close the distance between her and the ship’s occupants. He follows her but takes his time; he would like to study it better since he did not get the chance to do so the last two times that he has seen it.

He cranes his neck upward as he walks along the starboard side of the ship. His brain automatically calculates the _Star_ ’s dimensions. He figures it to be over thirty feet tall from the top gun turret to the bottom. Its saucer-like body appears to have the diameter of about seventy feet wide, which is more than triple the size of the width of the _Crest_ ’s main compartment. As he approaches where Talia is standing near the retracted boarding ramp, he estimates that from the stern to the elongated cockpit at the bow, the ship is just shy of one hundred feet.

Sharp hisses penetrate the still air, pulling him from his estimates. He joins his companion and watches as the ship’s wide boarding ramp lowers to the ground. He does not hear the usual loud squeaking and protesting noises of mechanics like most vessels, including his. The ramp must be well lubricated to be as “quiet” as it is right now.

The instant the metal walkway touches the ground, Talia strides up it, slightly bending her body at her waist. She calls out, “You’ll need to duck, bucket head.”

The teasing comment makes him roll his eyes. He trails behind her, copying her movements; except, he has to lower himself more since he is seven inches taller than her. His jet-pack feels heavier as he stoops forward, but he ignores it and climbs the ramp.

About a third of the way up, he almost loses his balance when the metal walkway suddenly rises. Automatically, he widens his stance and spreads his arms to the sides in order to steady himself. Who in the name of Nal Hutta would order the ramp to lift up when people are still using it? That did not happen on Galidraan when he first boarded the _Star_.

Expecting Talia to look as awkward as he feels, he glances in front of him. To his chagrin, he is completely wrong. She is standing firm without swaying in the slightest, keeping perfect balance as if she had been expecting this. He wants to grumble at how unfair the Force is, making her seem so composed while he must look like a wobbly fool with arms splayed and legs shaking.

Despite the unexpected movement, Din notices an obvious change in the temperature. The ship is much cooler, and he feels his body relax as it is relieved from combating the Arvalan heat. The _Star_ , he realizes, smells of cleaning polish and new leather. He also detects a faint scent of mint, just like the laundry soap used at Dewan Manor on Onderon.

The ramp has closed, leaving him and Talia in the ship’s boarding room. Since he has been in here before, he knows that the door ahead of them leads to the main body of the _Star_. He did not get a good look inside the last time he came, but he does remember the curving hallway and a few closed doors.

A brief hiss interrupts his thoughts, and the boarding room’s door slides open, revealing the last thing that the bounty hunter wants to see: R6-D12.

Tittering excitedly on its two metal legs, the white and orange plated astromech-droid whistles loudly. The noise is as high-pitched as he remembers, and it feels as if its chirping and whirring noises will not stop bouncing off the walls of the small boarding room. R6’s stubby cone-shaped head swivels left then right, its movements reflecting the ship’s lights.

Since the inside of the Mandalorian’s helmet is still able to translate binary, he reads: _“Oh, Master Dewan! I’m so glad you’re back, safe and sound!”_

The droid plants its third foot on the floor and rolls itself towards Talia, still trembling with exhilaration. Din is not surprised that the annoying bucket of bolts completely ignores his presence—not that he cares.

“Hello, my friend,” he hears his companion reply before fondly patting her beloved metal nuisance on its angular head. “Have you been keeping things under control so far?”

The astromech beeps, but Din ignores the translation. Before he can interrupt this “touching” reunion and harshly demand to R6, ‘Where’s my kid?’, movement catches his attention. Not being able to stop himself, he places a gloved hand atop his holstered pistol.

Turning his head and himself in that direction, he finds a tan-colored DUM series pit droid standing underneath the threshold, enthusiastically waving at both him and Talia. He assumes this must be P-1, the jack-of-all-traits assistant that she had mentioned a couple of days ago. The Mandalorian grimaces at the droid. Even though he knew it was onboard, he cannot find it within himself to acknowledge it with a nod. Instead, he allows his hand to release his tight hold on his weapon—for Talia’s sake.

In the next few seconds, he regards the droid. Like most of its bothersome kind, P-1 has a skeleton-looking body with skinny arms and legs. Its dome-shaped head makes it nearly four feet tall, and it looks far too heavy for its thin neck to support it. A tinny antenna sticks out of its round top while a large photoreceptor is embedded right in the front, giving P-1 a “face.” The sole lens is round and black, and though he knows the photoreceptor allows the droid to “see,” he cannot help but view it as a nose rather than one, big eye.

At that moment, Vandar runs into the room. The green child easily bypasses the waving droid and makes a bee-line for his guardian, moving faster than most people would think possible. Seeing pointy ears flapping in the air fills the inside of the bounty hunter’s chest with warmth. His feet act on their own, and in less than a second, he meets his kid halfway. Quickly, he bends forward and sweeps Vandar in his arms. This earns him a happy coo and a big smile.

“Hey, there,” Din greets him, his voice feeling slightly thicker than before. “Everything okay with you, little womp-rat?”

Glee twinkles in the baby’s brown eyes, and the Mandalorian does not bother to stop his lips from forming a half-smile. Over fifty hours of being parted from his gifted bundle of joy is something he would prefer to never happen again. He had missed his adoptive son more than he will admit. And to make the separation harder to deal with was being unable to rid himself from worrying about the child’s welfare and from stressing over the idea that those lifeless droids might not be giving the attention that someone as young as him needs. Just because Talia has faith in those metal pests does not mean _he_ has to.

With sharp eyes, Din checks the kid to see if he has truly been taken care of in his absence. He peeks under his small brown tunic, behind his ears, and up his little arms. Relief calms his over-protective side when he sees that Vandar is healthy and seems to be well-fed. Even his diaper appears to be changed.

“I’m so glad you escaped Galidraan unharmed, Mistress Talia,” the bounty hunter hears a quiet yet enthusiastic voice remark to his companion. “At least, you look unharmed. From what I can see, that is. But then, I may be wrong. _Are_ you unharmed?”

Din tears his gaze away from the baby in his arms and focuses on P-1, who has been talking to Talia a mile-a-minute. It is surprising to hear a pit droid speaking in Galactic Basic rather than in binary. P-1’s voice is not ear-splitting like R6’s beeping and whistling can be, yet it is not exactly soft either. It actually reminds him of a human who sucked in a small amount of helium. At first, he regards it as an annoying quality; however, even he will admit that it makes P-1 seem almost child-like: kind and innocent.

As Talia replies, Din feels the baby squirm in his grasp. He wiggles his squat body, and his guardian almost loses his grip on him. A whine escapes the baby before he stretches his short arms towards the nanny that he has been separated from for over two weeks. The Mandalorian knows he should not keep the kid separated from Talia any longer, so he maneuvers himself closer to her. She turns to them and smiles brightly at the fidgeting youngling.

“Why, hello there, Vandar,” she says, her accent sounding sweeter in his ears. “Have you been behaving yourself?”

He passes the little one to her. Vandar giggles as she cuddles him close to her chest. There is something special about the way Talia plants a soft kiss on his wrinkly forehead. It is not just because they seem to have formed a mother-son relationship. It feels . . . deeper. And more intimate. Perhaps it is that Force-bond she has told him about. He wonders if it happens with people who are Force-sensitive or if it develops only between teacher and student.

 _Master and apprentice,_ he corrects himself. _That’s what Talia said happened with her and Zeb._

“As a matter of fact, Mistress Talia,” P-1 replies even though Din is sure she was not searching for a real answer, “the child has been playing unfair games of hide-and-seek.” The skinny droid points an accusatory finger at Vandar. “He doesn’t stay in the same place. And then, he started chasing me when _I_ was the one doing the seeking!”

The squeaky voice plus flaying arms makes P-1 look comical, and the bounty hunter feels his eyebrows rise at the theatrics. “Yeah, he does that,” he bluntly remarks. “Talia taught him.”

At this, P-1 focuses its black lens on him. It tilts its domed-head at him before asking, “And _who_ are you?”

“P-1,” Talia answers for him, “this is Mando. He’s my guest.”

Din sends her a subtle nod, telling her that he is thankful she remembered not to give the droid his actual name. The smile that plays on her dark pink lips is almost unnoticeable, but he was looking for it.

“Oh!” P-1 exclaims, its squeaky voice dragging the _o_ sound for a couple of seconds. It taps its head with a metal hand as if something just clicked within its circuits. “You must be the meanie Mando that R6 has been telling me about.” Before Din can snap at the trash compactor, P-1 then turns to the droid in question and comments, “He doesn’t look so cranky to me.”

R6 sputters, and the bounty hunter reads, _“Looks can be deceiving.”_

“Watch it, tin-can,” he practically growls while Talia says, “R6, be nice.”

Despite the authoritative tone that his mistress used, the astromech swivels its head in defiance. It starts whistling, but Talia cuts it off: “You and I will need to talk about your behavior later on, but for now: no nicknames, all right? To you and P-1, he will only be called ‘Mando.’”

As the baby holds her green pendant in his little hands, P-1 nods obediently. However, Din’s ears are filled with more protests from the stubborn astrodroid: _“Why? I’ve heard you call him—”_

“It doesn’t matter what I call him,” she firmly states. “From now on, he’s ‘Mando.’ And I don’t want to have to correct you again, R6-D12.”

Din cannot stop from smirking when she emphasized her order by using the droid’s full name. This whole confrontation reminds him of a parent reprimanding her rebellious child. Although there are some droids, like RUBY and IG-11, who are not bad company, Din knows that the chances of getting along with R6 are slim to none—not that he minds.

 _“Fine . . . Mando,”_ R6 whirrs out sharply. It rolls its cylinder body around and heads for the door. _“How original,”_ Din reads inside his helmet. _“It’s like calling a male in Galactic Basic ‘man.’”_

Talia shakes her head and mutters something to Vandar who has been too focused with holding her green Force-crystal pendant to even pay attention to the small scene. P-1, on the other hand, waves a dismissive hand in R6’s direction.

“Don’t mind him,” it assures the Mandalorian. “R6 is just protective of Mistress Talia because he raised her.”

“No, he didn’t,” she corrects it.

“Well, that’s what he claims,” the pit droid replies, shrugging its shoulders. It then says to Din in a cheerful tone, “But I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Master Mando. It’ll be nice to have you here. Will it be temporary or forever?”

While he answers, “Temporary,” Talia states, “The foreseeable future.”

Her response jars him, and he briefly glances her way. Thankfully, she is busy getting a ship-update from P-1 to notice his silence.

The word _future_ sounds like an extensive amount of time to him. He knows that they decided a couple of days ago to try to find the kid’s blood-people together, and he also knows that doing this may require them to sacrifice a few months in order to complete it. But hearing her say _future_ with such natural confidence makes him wonder just how long she expects their mission to take. Unlike her aristocratic roots and leisurely time, he cannot afford to galivant across the galaxy more than half-a-year. He is just a simple bounty hunter who relies on his unpredictable job for credits.

On top of this, he needs to reunite with his Tribe at some point, too. His Armorer believes a handful of the members may have escaped to other systems, and he will like to join up with them again and help them establish another cohort. So, the longer he delays in finding them, the farther they may be for him to connect with. The word _future_ feels like it will push his entire Tribe out of his reach.

Arvala-7 is his and Talia’s first stop in finding clues about Vandar and how he got here. If this idea did not produce anything, Talia had suggested they go to Kashyyyk. She did not say what their next destination will be if the Wookie planet proved to be another dead-end, so he is hoping extremely hard that Arvala-7 will give them plenty of answers. Yet, based on his luck after meeting his two companions, he should not be holding his breath.

“Would you like a tour?” he hears Talia ask, pulling him from his thoughts. After he answers with a curt nod, she removes her leather satchel and hands it to her pit droid. “P-1, please take this to my study.” He notices that she did not give away her backpack.

The skinny droid dutifully salutes her. “Right away!” it squeaks out before accepting her bag.

“And then,” she continues, “will you make sure the first mate’s quarters is ready for our guest?”

“Yes, ma’am!” P-1 chimes before scurrying out of the room. Din watches it turn left and then disappear from view.

“Shall we?” Talia asks him, gesturing to the door, and he nods again.

She takes the lead, which is to be expected since this is her ship. The baby giggles as the bounty hunter follows the Force-sensitive duo, and he is content just seeing Vandar look so comfortable placing his green cheek against Talia’s shoulder.

The saucer-like body of the _Star_ naturally makes its main hallway curve in a perfect circle. He follows his host as she turns left. The walls, he notes, are a relaxing tan color, and the pewter floors shine as if they have recently been waxed. Talia points to a closed door on her right, telling him that is the crew’s refresher.

“Two showers,” she reveals. “And two privies.”

On her left is the main cargo hold, followed then by the engineering room. Both doors are understandably closed at this time.

“What class is your hyperdrive?” he asks.

“A three.”

“And maximum speed?”

“About 950 kilometers per hour,” she replies over her shoulder.

After the engineering room is the ship’s lone escape pod, which—he is told—seats seven people. Across the way, on their right, is Talia’s study.

“It was a storage room before,” she informs him. “But I changed it so I could have a quiet place to do research and to read. And to meditate.”

His ears perk up at the mention of her last reason. What exactly does a meditation room look like? Is it mostly barren so items will not float while she meditates? Or are there things _in there_ for that reason? Does she still sit on the floor, or does she have a special chair or even a rug?

The questions buzz in his mind, but he shelves them for later because Talia is now escorting him into another area which appears to be some kind of hallway.

“I turned this into a training room,” she remarks.

He glances around and spies two circle outlines on the floor. They are painted red and are sitting side-by-side with less than three feet separating them. While the circle on his left appears to have a diameter of fifteen feet, the other on the right seems to have one of ten—which will not give sparring partners much room to maneuver around in at all.

A half-smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth when he realizes that these outlines are actually Mandalorian Fighting Circles. He finds it comforting to know that, even though Talia considers herself to be a Jedi, she is still holding onto some elements of her Mandalorian roots.

On his right is a closet, probably filled with training equipment, and on his left, near a steel door, is a touch-screen along with a control panel.

“They’re for the top hatch,” she shares, pointing up to the circular door and a retractable ladder fastened to the ceiling, “and the airlock.” She then nods at the large steel barrier that he had been eyeing.

“What’s in there?” he questions, jerking a thumb at the room behind them.

“Space suits, oxygen masks,” she lists off. “Stuff like that.”

Talia then guides him straight ahead and into the next section of the _Star_. It is a large galley, which is connected to the crew’s lounge—or is that supposed to be a common room? He usually cannot tell the difference.

The galley itself is packed with cabinets of various sizes, a rectangular island counter, cooking equipment, and standard kitchen appliances. On top of the counter is a plate of _uj’alayi_ ¹, the exact kind that he had eaten at Talia’s house months ago. Seeing the cake, flat and pale-yellow, brings his hunger to the forefront of his mind with a vengeance, reminding him that it is long past time for him to take his next meal.

 _(_ ¹ _pronounced: oo-jah-LIE-ee; significance: uj cake – dense, very sweet flat cake usually made of ground nuts, syrup, pureed dried fruit, and spices)_

As he stares at the dessert, his mouth waters at the memory of crushed nuts, dried berries, and cinnamon all joined together with flour and _uj’ayl_ ². During his stay on Onderon, he learned that this type of uj’alayi has been the Japrael Mandos’ recipe of the sweet cake for several centuries. Since then, he has grown quite an appreciation for how they bake it with its thick texture and tart berry flavor.

 _(_ ² _pronounced:_ _oo-JAY-ul; significance: thick scented syrup used in cooking)_

“I’m starved,” he hears Talia say. She sets Vandar on the counter and tears off a piece of the cake. Like a perfect hostess, she gives the uj’alayi to the baby who happily munches on it. “You hungry?” she asks the bounty hunter.

His stomach clenches, and he can almost smell the dessert’s sweet scent. “I can eat,” he replies, trying to keep his voice reluctant.

“I’ll have to make something soon,” she comments before popping a portion of cake into her mouth. She then turns to him, and he sees that she has placed a generous serving of the uj’alayi on top of a towel and is now handing it to him. “For when you get into your room,” she says with a smile.

Before he can thank her, she scoops Vandar from the counter and walks past a curved sectional couch on her right and a sitting area with a table on her left. She murmurs something to the baby as she moves towards the door that, he assumes, leads to the main hallway again.

Din ignores what the rest of the joint-rooms look like; he can study them later on. Right now, he takes advantage of Talia’s back being turned. Quickly, he breaks off a piece of the cake, lifts up his helmet just enough to expose his jawline, and shoves the uj’alayi into his mouth. A splash of the berries’ tartness accosts his tastebuds as he chews, nearly causing him to groan. He feels his stomach greedily anticipate the cake’s thick sweetness, but he forces himself not to inhale the dessert. He needs to save it for later when he is alone in his room. So, he pulls down his helmet, covers the dessert with the towel, and then trails behind his hostess.

With long strides he joins her in less than ten seconds. On her right, in the middle of the _Star_ is the circuitry room which also leads to the upper and lower dual laser gun turrets. He hears Talia mention something about having an ion cannon, but he is too busy ignoring his stomach’s demand to be fed again.

“I was going to show you the armory,” she begins.

“You have an arsenal?” he interrupts, no bothering to hide his surprise.

“It’s not as big as yours,” she admits, nodding down the hallway that connects the rest of the ship to the cockpit.

He sees that her eyes are fixed on the first door on the left which must be the armory. He is surprised that she has an actual room specifically dedicated to weapons; she has always seemed content with her pistol and vibroblades. And her lightsaber, too, of course. For her, the fewer the armaments the better—unlike him. He then thinks of the _Crest_ stocked with numerous sizes of blasters, detonators, and other dangerous trinkets. In his opinion, a Mandalorian can never have too many weapons. But when Talia has to use any of hers, she is a force to be reckoned with, especially with her lightsaber. Though she is a skilled warrior, he knows that she prefers to be a peacekeeper, as per her Jedi training.

“You can look at it later, if you want,” she offers with a shy smile. “I don’t know about you, but I’m desperate for a change of clothes.”

“So am I,” he admits.

The sound of metal clanking on the floor interrupts them. He sees P-1 exiting the room next to the armory, its arms dramatically swaying with every step.

“The first mate’s bunk is now ready for Master Mando,” the pit droid proudly announces.

“Thank you, P-1,” Talia replies with a kind smile. She then sets the baby on the ground, and Vandar shuffles over to the skinny droid. To Din, she says, “The cockpit is down this hall. R6 is usually in there. These other doors are empty bunks. My room,” she adds, pointing in the direction of the gun turret area, “is around the corner. It’s next to the med-bay.”

“And after that is the boarding ramp,” he supplies now having a complete layout of the _Alabaster Star_.

She nods. Her dark eyes veer away from him for a moment before she quietly reveals, “And I have to tell you that I, uh, I have a medical droid in the med-bay.”

The news startles him, and he jerks his head at her. That makes _three_ droids already! If RUBY, her protocol droid from Onderon, suddenly appeared, Din would not even blink.

“Oh, GG is wonderful for guests!” he hears P-1 exclaim.

“GG?” the Mandalorian flatly repeats. “How many droids do you have here?” he all but demands of his hostess.

“She’s the last one, I promise. She’s a GH-7 model,” Talia explains. “Her full name is GG-91-SD—”

“But we just call her ‘GG’ for short,” P-1 interrupts. “Don’t we, Mistress?”

“Yes, we do.” When Talia looks at Din again, she gives him a reassuring smile, but he is unable to return it. “GG won’t bother you, if that’s what your worried about. She’s programmed to stay in the med-bay unless she’s ordered otherwise.”

If he was not holding his sweet cake in one hand, he would be crossing his arms in disapproval. Instead, his shoulders stiffen. He can feel a grimace dominate his expression as he mutters, “Too many droids, Talia.”

She drops her gaze. “I know . . .”

“Do you really need them?”

Her eyes lift to his visor. “They’re all helpful. I can’t do everything alone.”

“She can’t,” P-1 chimes in, its helium-like voice sounding much too matter-of-fact in the bounty hunter’s opinion.

“Thank you, P-1,” she sighs with a hint of sarcasm.

“You’re welcome!”

“Why do you even need a med-droid?” Din asks. “You can heal yourself.”

“I’m not a trained Force-healer,” she argues. “There _are_ things I can’t fix.”

He swallows a frustrated sigh and looks away. Unfortunately, his gaze lands on P-1 who is nodding in agreement with its mistress. Its single eye is focused on him, and Din refuses to stoop low enough to engage in a staring contest with a mere pit droid. So, he moves his attention to Vandar who is standing beside it.

The baby is also gazing at him, his brown eyes searching across his Beskar helmet with a more serious expression than his guardian is used to. Din wonders if Vandar is learning from Talia just _how_ to look at him: attentive like her, and deep as if she can stare past his Beskar and down to his soul. The idea deepens his grimace because, of course, _that_ is all he needs right now!

“I’m going to wash up,” Talia announces, obviously changing the subject as a way to ease the tension filling up the hallway. “Why don’t you do the same? P-1 can look after the youngling for a little bit longer.”

“I sure can!”

“And then we’ll find something to eat in the galley,” she finishes.

The prospect of a relaxing shower and a fresh set of clothes chases away any more thoughts of pesky droids. He simply nods at his companion’s suggestion, and there is relief hidden in her smile.

“Droid,” he barks at P-1 while stashing his uj’alayi into his satchel. He then removes his jet-pack from behind him. “Take this to my room. And be careful with it,” he orders and then hands his equipment to it.

“Yes, sir, Master Mando. Right away!” P-1 replies, seemingly unaffected by the bounty hunter’s harsh tone.

The silver jet-pack looks so much heavier than the skinny machine can handle despite the latter’s height of four feet. But Din knows that pit droids have been designed to carry items many times bigger and heftier than their own size. And P-1 is no different. It holds onto the jet-pack with its metal arms and then waltzes towards the first mate’s quarters.

“I’ll be in the refresher,” the Mandalorian says to Talia before striding down the curved hall. He can do with time alone. A _lot_ of time.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

The ship is quiet as he exits the crew’s refresher. In the past half hour, he had taken his time showering and scrubbing off the sweat and thin coating of ash from Nevarro. To him, the filth and its bitter scent had clung to his neck and face for long enough. He felt lighter as the reminder of what he had been through in the last few days disappeared down the drain.

After changing into clean clothes, he actually allowed himself to shave off the layer of prickly scruff growing along his jawline and upper lip. When he looked in the mirror above the sink to remove the thin facial hair, he made sure to focus on the task at hand. He had no desire to see the person underneath his helmet staring back at him. Besides, it is not his face that defines him: it is his armor, his helmet, his Code. He may be Din Djarin, a foundling from the planet Aq Vetina, but he is first and foremost a Mandalorian. The blood running through his veins is silver like molten Beskar. Therefore, his gaze was not even tempted to stray past his nose and to become re-acquainted with the man he has grown into.

With this thought in mind, he heads for the room assigned to him. He turns the corner and is about to stride down the hallway leading to the crew’s quarters and the cockpit beyond when he smells a delicious aroma floating from the galley. His nose identifies pepper, meat, and even _ne’tra gal_ *. His stomach clenches at the expectation of an upcoming meal. He had eaten his piece of uj’alayi the moment he entered the refresher, and it had staved off his hunger—that is, until now.

 _(_ * _pronounced: NAY-trah gahl; literal translation: black ale; significance: sweet, almost spicy black beer)_

Quickly, he marches past the armory on his left and stands in front of his door. He presses a button on the panel nearby, and he is granted access to his room. The first thing he sees is a bookshelf-desk and chair. There are compartments in the furniture, and he wonders if they are empty.

Turning his head to the right, he observes the rest of his quarters. A footlocker is stationed at the end of a single bunk. The bed itself is pushed into the corner, and there are drawers designed underneath it. Atop his well-made mattress is his jet-pack.

The first mate’s quarters, he figures, is over five feet deep and twelve feet long. Small yet not as confining as his sleeping compartment back on the _Crest_. He notices that the walls are covered with a thin, dark gray material, making the room seem not as cold and detached like the rest of most ships. It is a nice personal touch, and overall, he is pleased with his temporary quarters.

 _I can get used to this,_ he says to himself.

He steps further inside and hears the door hiss closed behind him. After tossing his satchel on the desk, he decides to relocate his jet-pack into his new footlocker. When he opens it, he finds a folded blanket and an extra pillow inside but nothing else.

His stomach growls, ordering him to eat. So, he exits his room. His gray cloak flaps behind him, and the sound of his boots echo down the hallway. He turns right, presses a button near the door to the galley and common room, and enters.

The scent of whatever has been cooking greets him. His mouth waters as he takes in a deep breath. He walks past the sitting area and heads straight for the galley, ignoring everything in the room. On the stove is a medium-sized pot with steam rising into the air, but he directs his steps towards the island-counter. On top of it is a food tray containing a bowl, a cup and small jug, a fabric napkin, a plate of bread, and a spoon.

As he nears the counter, he sees that the bowl is filled with what appears to be stew. The broth is a deep green with carrots, white vegetables, and cubes of pale meat floating in its thick depths. His gaze drifts over to the jug sitting beside the stew, and he knows that it must contain ne’tra gal. If he had any doubts as to who the food tray belongs to, the presence of the Mandalorian spirits confirms that Talia had prepared this arrangement specifically for him.

The sound of shuffling from the training room penetrates his thinking, and he turns around, expecting to find his hostess. But his eyes land on P-1 who is carrying a sleepy-looking Vandar to the couch stationed across from the galley.

In a quiet voice, the pit droid says, “Master Vandar wants to sleep, too.”

 _Too?_ the Mandalorian wonders.

He directs his full attention on the five-seater couch, and he discovers Talia lying there, asleep. Barefoot, she is wearing a dress-like tunic with long-sleeves, silver embroidery around the wide collar and cuffs, and a hemline that reaches her shins. The tunic itself looks velvety to the touch and is the same color as the couch: dark blue. No wonder he missed her when he entered the room. Her still, curled up form could blend in with the cushioned furniture if a person was not paying attention to his surroundings—which is exactly what he had done. He was so focused on his stomach and food that he disregarded his whereabouts.

 _You should know better,_ he reprimands himself.

As P-1 sets the baby near Talia’s head, the bounty hunter notes that she is using her left arm as a pillow while her right is hanging over the side of the couch. She has a black shawl with her, but more than half of it is slipping onto the pewter floor like tar. Her dark brown hair gleams in the lights above, and he realizes that it is still damp from her shower. He studies the way her locks freely trickle over her shoulder and waist and spill onto the couch. There is a slight wave in them, and they remind him of molasses, thick and long.

He sees two empty bowls on the floor, directly beneath her, telling him that both she and the baby have eaten. It is only natural that Talia would succumb to a nap after a hearty meal. Yet perhaps her rest is more serious than a simple power-nap. Her breaths are deep, and she obviously did not hear him march across the room. This past week, he is sure, has exhausted her. However, she seems completely at peace sleeping in her relaxed wardrobe. A contented expression is on her tanned face, and her cheeks have a healthy glow. He would deny thinking this, but Talia looks, well . . . pretty.

“If you don’t need me, Master Mando,” a helium-voice whispers to him, “I’m heading to the engine room to re-charge.”

Tearing his gaze away from the peaceful scene in front of him, Din sends P-1 a curt nod. The droid tiptoes out of the room, leaving him with his two companions. Vandar is lying near his nanny and has the top of his green head touching hers.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs his adoptive son, and for once, his instructions are obeyed. Vandar’s heavy eyelids slowly blink twice before remaining closed.

Suspecting the Force-sensitive duo will not be leaving the couch for a while, he is about to return to his room with his food tray but stops. Instead, he quietly walks over to the slumbering woman. His nostrils are soon filled with the refreshing scent of sweet cream and lemons. For as long as he has known Talia, he has believed that the fragrance is from her shampoo, yet he sometimes thinks it must be a type of lotion or oil for it to linger on her for as long as it does. But he tells himself to stop speculating about this. Why is he anyways?

He gently moves Talia’s right arm onto the couch. If it stays where it is, hanging over the furniture, he knows that it will become stiff and numb. She hums at the contact of his gloved hand but thankfully does not stir.

At the last moment, he grabs her ebony shawl and maneuvers it over her, making sure that it covers her from her bare feet all the way up to her shoulder. He knows that her damp hair and the cool temperature of the _Star_ will chill anyone, and Talia needs as much uninterrupted sleep as she can get. In his opinion, she has more than earned it.

Satisfied, he retrieves his food tray and soundlessly heads for his quarters. Food and rest are at the top of his to-do list.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Two hours later . . ._

He cannot believe he slept for so long. When was the last time he actually took a nap? When he was a teenager? It seems he has still not recovered from the rough week he just finished. And apparently, his rest periods in the _Crest_ ’s sleeping compartment have not allowed him to fully relax. As if he could, taking turns with a certain half-Onderonian every few hours.

Shaking his head, Din strides out of his quarters, his food tray in hand. He is about to turn right, towards the joint galley-crew lounge, when he hears murmuring down the hall near Talia’s quarters. But he continues on—he needs to rid himself of his dirty dishes first.

The common room is deserted, which he finds strange. He at least expected to find one of Talia’s droids fiddling about. Yet, he is not disappointed in the slightest. Though P-1 does seem amiable and naïve, R6 has been far too defiant and outspoken that any astromech has the right to be.

So, he walks to the galley, rinses his used dishes, and sets them aside for later. Next, he exits the room the way that he came and marches past the circuitry and gun turret section of the ship. And again, he hears murmuring followed by giggling from Vandar. He heads in that direction and soon realizes that it is not originating from Talia’s quarters like he thought. Instead, it seems to be coming from the med-bay. But why would his companions be in there of all places?

Standing in front of the room in question, he presses the OPEN button on the side panel. Immediately, the door slides away, granting him entrance.

He finds Talia sitting on top of an examination table with the baby cuddling in her lap. Her tunic-like dress, dark blue and velvety, looks cozy as Vandar stares at him with a wide smile. Talia, noticing that the child’s attention has been drawn somewhere else, angles her head in Din’s direction. The movement causes her wavy molasses hair to shimmer in the light as it cascades down her back. Her posture is straight, and he notices, much to his amusement, that her bare feet are dangling above the cold, pewter floor in a way that reminds him of a child. _Petite_ and _short_ —those are the two words that best describe her physique.

“Hello,” she greets him with a warm smile. Her eyes shine with energy, telling him that her nap had done wonders for her. “How was your rest, _ner burc’ya_ *?”

 _(_ * _pronounced: nair BOOR-sha; translation: “my friend”)_

“It was fine.”

He steps further inside and notes the door swooshing closed behind him. Turning his head, he surveys the room in a few seconds.

Along the left wall is a long counter with a sink and with cabinets hanging above it. Across from him, past his two companions and the exam table they are sitting on, are deep storage lockers. The right wall is mostly covered by a screen; at the moment, it is displaying an outdoors scene with red-leafed trees, rocky valleys, and an orange sky. However, he suspects the screen can feature a patient’s vitals, medical history, current condition, and other important information such as blood pressure and heart-rate.

“What are you two doing in here?” he suspiciously asks his hostess as he spies a cushioned chair stationed in a corner on his right. Hoping neither of them are wrestling with an illness, he wonders aloud, “Is everything okay?”

“Talia and Vandar are in perfect health,” a female, mechanical voice answers.

Instinctively, Din tenses up as a hovering droid appears. It had been floating behind Talia and out of his view; otherwise, he would have seen it earlier.

“GG,” Talia begins, waving the droid over so he can see it completely, “this is Mando. He’s my other guest.”

With a hunter’s eye, he watches as the GH-7 droid hovers itself into full view. It is a small machine almost two-and-a-half feet in length with two, bright aqua photoreceptors posing as its “eyes.” Its head—which is rather large if someone asks him—is a hammer-headed shape. There is a long sloping design on top, at the back, reminding him of a bird’s crest, and it looks as if it was intended by its makers to be some kind of equipment tray.

Unlike most droids, he notes that this particular one has a round yet flat “face,” meaning it neither has a “snout” nor a pointy “chin.” And for some reason, GG’s big head and lightly colored “eyes” give it the look of a child: approachable and innocent. Even though it seems less threatening than the other kinds of droids that he has stumbled across, the Mandalorian cannot help feeling wary as it floats closer to him.

The rest of GG’s shiny gray body looks more complicated than the typical medical droid. Its torso is somewhat humanoid-looking except for a deep slit in the chest area that houses what appears to be a hologram projector. And there is an L-shaped tray connected to GG’s right hip that contains a rack of vials and jars. He supposes that is where the droid keeps its patients’ specimens. Then, stationed above that tray is another, smaller one, this time stemming from GG’s left hip.

“Greetings, Mando,” the droid says in a gentle and even soothing voice. “If you need medical attention at any time, I am at your service.”

 _Yeah, I don’t think so,_ he muses to himself. He sees that GG has three skinny arms, each with dual-hinged manipulators, or “fingers.” While two of the appendages are attached to its shoulders, the third originates from the top of its right shoulder.

GG keeps looking at him, probably waiting for him to reply, so he simply gives it a curt nod. It returns the acknowledgment with its flat-faced head and hovers away from him.

“I just had GG do a physical exam on Vandar,” he hears Talia inform him as he watches the droid maneuver its small frame towards the counter.

“Why?” he asks.

Talia shrugs her shoulders. “Well, since the three of us are going to be traveling together for a while, I just thought we should start a medical file on him. For worst-case scenarios. GG has mine, too.”

“And how is he?” Din wonders while he focuses on his adoptive son.

Dropping her gaze, Talia also studies the baby and smiles. “Very healthy. Aren’t you, youngling?” she says to him before gently bobbing his little nose, which earns her a giggle. She turns her attention back to the bounty hunter, sharing, “And now, I’m having GG check his midi-chlorian count.”

Din slowly nods his head. A couple of days ago, she told him that every living being had these microscopic life-forms inside them, including him. She also said people believed that an individual’s Force-sensitivity can be associated with a high count of these midi-chlorians. Though he is not sure if he entirely believes this hypothesis, he is glad there is a somewhat scientific explanation of the Force.

“What’s your count?” he asks her. He never thought of doing so before.

“A little over 12,000,” she answers with another shrug of her shoulders.

The number flies over his head; after all, he is not sure if that is an impressive or average amount of midi-chlorians for a Force-sensitive. He wonders what _is_ a significant number according to her Jedi upbringing.

“I have Vandar’s results now,” GG announces. It faces them before revealing, “He has a count of approximately 15,500 midi-chlorians.”

As the droid turns around to do whatever it is supposed to according to its programming, the bounty hunter looks to Talia, still in the dark. He finds it odd that she is gazing at the baby with surprise. And is that a hint of uncertainty causing her forehead to wrinkle? But why? The little one only has 3,500 more midi-chlorians in his blood; that is not a huge difference, right?

Din briefly glances at the person in question. Still snuggled on his nanny’s lap, Vandar is chewing on his guardian’s Mythosaur pendant, his green ears flapping down. He has no idea that he is the center of their conversation.

“You truly are powerful, youngling,” Talia whispers to him.

From the way she said that, astonished and almost sad, Din can hear the phrase, ‘Much more than me,’ whispering through the silent room.

As she sets Vandar on the exam table then slides off it, he can practically see doubt chisel its way onto her expression. He had figured that she thought herself not knowledgeable enough to keep on teaching the kid about the Force since her own training was cut short, yet she has done so anyways because there was no one else. He guesses that hearing Vandar’s midi-chlorian count must have really amplified her uncertainties on being his kid’s instructor.

He should say something to her, to help her get out of this mindset. In the past few days, he has seen her accomplish unbelievable things as if it was second-nature to her—which it probably is. He is very curious to know what she has done in the past during the Clone War and the Rebellion. Completed training or not, surely she just has to look back and remember all she has learned to realize that she is capable of teaching the child.

“He’s picked up a lot from you,” he comments, his gravelly voice sounding too business-like to pose as comfort. “Him being fifty and all,” he adds as an attempt to lighten the somber mood clouding over her.

“Correction, Mando,” GG interrupts so kindly that her voice does not even have a hint of a reprimand in it. “Vandar is actually five years old.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Are you sure?” Talia asks.

“My diagnostics are quite accurate.”

“But I was told differently,” the bounty hunter states, steel in his tone.

“I am merely telling you what I have learned,” GG explains with more calmness than he has ever heard in a droid before. “Vandar is five years old.”

“Thank you, GG,” Talia replies, dismissing it so it can return to its duties. She glances at him. “You said the Imperial who wanted the youngling had a scientist with him.”

He nods. “I don’t see why he’d lie. He was interested in keeping the kid safe.”

A thoughtful look replaces her earlier doubt, and she picks up the child from the exam table. “I knew,” she says to the little one, “that you weren’t fifty.”

“How? Your Force-bond?” his guardian asks, crossing his arms. The baby coos at her with a shy smile.

She nods. “I’ve been teaching him to meditate. Whenever we do it together, our bond grows stronger. He’s been able to see some things in my mind, and I’ve tried to do it with him. But . . .”

“But?” he presses.

“It’s hazy.” Vandar’s tiny hand wraps around her slim fingers. “I thought only an infant would have memories as blurry as his. Not a fifty-year-old. Plus, I would’ve thought he could talk by now.”

 _Makes sense,_ Din muses to himself yet remains quiet. _But . . ._

“Just how accurate is your droid?” he cannot stop from asking.

“GG’s the best,” Talia replies. “GH-7s aren’t expensive for no reason.”

Instead of picking on her droid further, he relents, dropping his arms to his sides. “Your family sure did spoil you with gifts before you left, huh?” he remarks, glad his tone has a hint of playfulness in it.

He watches Talia re-adjust her hold on the kid, her eyes busy looking everywhere else other than the bounty hunter. “My family didn’t give GG to me,” she quietly answers.

One of his brows lifts up at the revelation. “Then how’d you get it?” Although he knows she did not steal it, he doubts a GH-7 dropped into her lap by accident.

After tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, Talia looks at him. Her shoulders seem a little tense as she says, “Dacob.”

Din rolls his eyes. Why did he not figure that out sooner? Ryk’ken _would_ make sure she was thoroughly attended to in his absence. The bounty hunter should convince R6 to scan GG for potential trackers. That jealous fool just might have hidden one on the med-droid so he can find Talia and convince her return to Onderon.

“He knows,” his companion explains, “that when I’m weak and try to heal myself or others, I sometimes faint. So, he gave me GG to take care of me. She had belonged to his family—”

“And he deprived his kids of a useful medical droid,” Din interrupts with a quiet scoff.

_Sounds just like him._

“Dacob lives alone,” Talia defends. “His boys don’t need GG, and neither does he. Not when his position on Onderon gives him access to the royal medical facilities and personnel.”

 _Whatever you say,_ he inwardly tells her but refuses to voice it. He knows he would not be able to keep his skepticism from his voice.

Thinking there is nothing else to say, he turns to leave so he can assess the _Star_ ’s cockpit. He halts when Talia remarks, “I hope knowing this doesn’t affect your view on GG.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he replies, “It won’t.” He simply has no intention of getting an injury that will land him in the med-bay. “Ryk’ken has a problem with me more than I do with him,” he points out.

He is on the verge of continuing on his way when he catches Talia running her teeth over her bottom lip. This tell of hers indicates that something is on her mind, but she is not sure how to phrase it. Instead of quelling his curiosity, he finds himself wondering, “Why’d you ask?”

“It’s just . . .” She sets Vandar down, and the little one hobbles around the room. “I was thinking . . .”

 _Oh, great,_ Din silently moans. He is familiar with that hesitant tone: Talia has an idea that he will more than likely not want to comply with.

“I know you’re not going to like this,” she begins.

_Yeah, probably not._

Bracing himself, he faces her again and prompts, “What is it?”

“I would like for GG to give you a brain scan. To see how your concussion is doing,” she hurriedly adds, but he is already shaking his head.

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just a precaution,” she says, taking a step towards him.

In response, he stubbornly crosses his arms. “I’m fine. My head doesn’t hurt anymore. You took care of that.”

“And I’ve told you before that I’m not a trained healer,” she argues. “Let’s have GG see if—”

“I don’t need a droid to tell me that I’m all right,” he retorts, and he avoids pointing out that he has no desire for another machine to see his face. IG-11 was the exception because, unlike now, his circumstances had been dire on Nevarro.

Talia tilts her head to the side then cocks a dark brow at him. Her gaze is much too attentive, and he wants to shift on his feet. “Is that the reason?” she asks. “Or is it because you don’t want to take off your helmet?”

 _Not this again,_ he silently growls. How can she read him so well?

“Don’t use the Force on me,” he snaps.

“I didn’t have to,” she tersely replies.

Her eyes harden as if she is readying herself for another argument, yet he is surprised when, suddenly, they soften. He thinks it unusual that it is not out of surrender or kindness but because of her self-doubt making another appearance. She walks over to him and lays a gentle hand on his crossed arms, right on his wrist.

“This shouldn’t take long,” she promises. Her accent is quiet, as if she is trying to keep this between themselves. Is she worried the kid is paying attention to their conversation? Vandar is too busy trailing behind a hovering GG. “It’ll be a simple scan,” she assures him while giving his wrist a small squeeze. “And if this helps: GG’s records of whoever she treats is password protected and encrypted.”

She is staring up at him with those sincere dark eyes of hers, and he forces himself not to give in. If she can play dirty, then so can he. In an attempt to wiggle out of this, he decides to use the nickname she liked hearing him say, hoping it will help his cause.

“Tal,” he softly says, “I’m fine. Really.”

But that fails to work. She gives him a sad half-smile, and her voice is painted with uncertainty as she replies, “Please, Din? I . . . I just want to make sure that I truly did heal you. Can you do this for me?” she whispers.

There is a vulnerability radiating from her that he knows is far from being fake. It tells him that she is not trying to manipulate him to yield. He can see how much this means to her, her Force-healing and all. Worry swirls in her gaze, and he cannot believe she doubts her skills this much to practically beg him like this. The confident mask she wore when she explained the Force to him a couple of days ago is slipping off, and she is not even bothering to keep it on. He is not sure if he should feel honored that she is being so open with him or concerned that she is not fighting to stay strong.

As his eyes roam over her tanned skin, he notes how smooth it looks. But the longer he studies her vulnerable expression the more he realizes that her plea to have him examined by GG is not just to put her mind at rest where her healing skills are concerned. She is also worried for his sake. Like a good friend and hostess, she really does want to know if he is 100% healed, and he wants to kick himself at the realization. Why did it take him all this time to figure it out? He should know by now that this is Talia: she has the tendency to put other people first, including him, before herself.

“All right,” he sighs, hoping he will not regret this decision.

The smile she gives him is slow to form on her dark pink lips, but it is filled with joy and relief. She squeezes his wrist one more time before releasing it. “Thank you,” she whispers then steps away from him. “GG,” she calls out to the droid while scooping up the baby.

“How can I be of service?” it asks, its mechanical female voice sounding as soft as feathers.

“Mando received a serious concussion almost a week ago,” Talia informs it, and he reluctantly walks over to the exam table. “I used the Force to heal him, but I want you to scan him to make sure everything is as it should be.”

“I will do so,” GG replies before noiselessly floating towards him. He orders himself to stop feeling tense as he eyes its three arms.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Talia says, still holding the baby.

“When are we heading to the compound?” Din asks her before she can leave the room.

“Why not tomorrow morning?” she suggests. “It’s the hottest part of the day soon. We can start early. There isn’t any rush, right?”

“No,” he says slowly, but he would prefer not to dawdle on Arvala-7.

“Good. Vandar and I will be in the cargo hold,” she tells him, and the baby coos at him. “Come and find us when you’re done.”

“You owe me for this, Dewan,” he calls out to her.

Standing in the hallway, she spins around and gives him an amused smile. “Just see it as your way of paying back your life-debt, Djarin.”

He thinks she sends him a wink, but the door suddenly swooshes closed that he is unable to confirm it. Now alone with GG, he sucks in a breath and follows the droid’s kind instructions.

* * *

**The _Alabaster Star_ \- General Design and Dimensions:**

**The _Alabaster Star_ 's Deck Plan:**

**Re-introducing R6-D12, Talia's Astromech Droid:**

**INTRODUCING P-1, Talia's DUM Pit Droid:**

**INTRODUCING GG-91-SD, Talia's GH-7 Medical Droid:**

**Talia's Attire:**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

First and foremost, I want to say how sorry I am in posting this chapter so late. I was frustrated each time I kept on delaying it. I can’t believe Chapter II has taken me two weeks to write, but I ran into some obstacles along the way. Plus, I found it difficult to write in some areas, which frustrated me even more.

Part of the reason why I was delayed was because I had family visiting, so finding time to write (while working) was hard to do. But the main reason is because I was looking for a Star Wars ship that could pose as the _Alabaster Star_. I searched models left and right, scouring the internet and websites, for the best one. I did settle on a model because I liked the way it was drawn, yet I was struggling to figure out its dimensions and deck-plan. Sadly, I realized I had to look for another ship WITH a deck-plan already sketched out.

That is when I decided to have the YT-2000 Corellian model act as the _Alabaster Star_. I tweaked the deck-plan that I found, which took a couple of days, but I’m quite satisfied with the ship as a whole. I squealed when I finished it. Since our trio, plus the droids, will be on the _Star_ for a while, I knew getting the technicalities such as the ship’s layout would be important. The hunt for the best model for Talia took much longer than I wanted, yet it was worth it. I hope you like the ship’s design, dear Readers. I made it much bigger than the _Razor Crest_ yet still smaller than, say, the _Millennium Falcon_.

Fun fact: I was doing some research on the _Crest_ ’s dimensions and found out that they have not been released yet. In my exploration, I stumbled across some fans’ estimates which, I’ve read, appear to be closely accurate to a lot of people, but I found myself disagreeing with them. I think they made the _Crest_ too large. Whenever I see Mando’s ship, I can’t help thinking that it’s so small! As I write about him in the _Crest_ , I feel as if there isn’t enough room inside, and reading about fans’ estimates on its size seems off to me. But then, what do I know of ship designs? Nothing, so I don’t have facts to base my own opinion on.

Okay, enough of the rabbit trail. Again, I’m so sorry I was late in posting. I was so annoyed at myself because of it; I feel as if I’m in race to write as much as I can before Season 3 comes out. I really wish I can do two chapters a week, but that’ll exhaust me. And juggling a job, though part-time, is something I need to get accustomed to again. I’m striving to post weekly and find a routine so I can have a chapter up by a certain day. I used to update on Tuesdays/Wednesdays and then moved it to Fridays/Saturdays, and I have a feeling I’ll have to change it for the third time. I’m going to leave it to Fridays/Saturdays for now, but if my chapters are delayed, I’ll let you know on my series’ main page.

Thank you for reading this long note! I hope to hear your thoughts on this chapter and upcoming chapters. Until next time!

xx SillyRomantic4Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, why do I have Vandar to be 5 years old rather than 50 like in the show? Well, first off, I personally don’t agree with his species’ aging process that the show is dictating. At that rate, he might be over 100 before he starts talking like an adult. I’ve always thought with Yoda, dying at 900, that his growth and maturity rate officially ended around 75 or something. So, I made the baby 5 years old. And I thought it would be special that after the tyrannical reign of the Sith in 5 ABY, more hope and peace would be brought into the galaxy with the birth of someone who was a member of dear Yoda’s species.
> 
> I made this decision before Season 2 was released, and at that time, I was still in the process of figuring out how the baby ended up on Arvala-7, how long he has been there, where he came from before that, etc. I had a plan all lined up until we were told in S2 that he was actually trained at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant before being smuggled out during Order 66. It was a creative explanation on the show’s part; however, I find it hard to accept that the Jedi Masters kept a child hailing from Yoda’s species a secret for nearly 25 years. And why would they do that? It was probably a way for the show’s people to explain how he has been able to lift up a Mudhorn or stop fire at such a young age (because he was taught beforehand).
> 
> I hope I didn’t ruffle too many feathers with this change. I promise I have, in my series, a reason why the scientist claimed the baby was 50. It’ll just be some time before that is revealed.
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> (P.S. Before I forget, for P-1's voice, I kept hearing Jimmy Fallon's helium voice while I was writing him!)


	4. Chapter III: Second Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished this chapter! I hope the wait is worth it, dear Readers. I felt each day that I delayed in posting, and I am excited to share with you Chapter III. Enjoy and let me know what you think! Comments are so very encouraging to me.

**Chapter III: Second Thoughts**

The morning sun is just as oppressive as high noon can be. Its golden rays are heating up the ground, and the bounty hunter can feel warmth radiating underneath his dusty boots with every step he takes. Above, the azure sky looks friendly, but there is not a cloud to be seen to block out the sun. His clothes are slightly damp from the trek to the Nikto compound, and the absence of a wind makes the sweltering air thick and dry. If he was not wearing his helmet, he is sure his lips would be cracked because, right now, his throat is almost parched.

Curious to see how his companions are faring in the unforgiving Arvalan desert, Din glances over his shoulder. He finds Talia walking beside the small repulsorlift platform cart that she insisted on bringing with them. At the _Alabaster Star_ she said that if there were computer terminals or data-pads at the compound, she might need to take them back with her so she and her droids could comb through them better. The cart has been following Talia all morning because it is controlled by a small gauntlet wrapped above her left wrist. The metal band, while also posing as a commlink, gives her access to her ship and to who knows what else.

On the cart is a wide-eyed Vandar who is currently trying to stay cool by hiding in the shadow of a large box filled with necessary survival items. Since neither of the Mandalorians had been sure just how long their venture to the compound will take, they both figured that it would be wise to pack with them food, water, and other provisions.

Also onboard is Din’s jet-pack. He had worn it while the three of them traveled through the canyons earlier this morning, but a few minutes after they entered the open rocky plains, he set it on the repulsorlift. Though his jet-pack is not extremely heavy, he figured removing it would make galivanting across the desert much easier—which it has.

He faces forward again, surveying for the hundredth time the environment boasting of various shades of orange. The _Star_ is settled about half a mile west of the compound, and he is starting to recognize his surroundings from his previous visit. Up ahead is a rise in the terrain that should overlook the settlement he and IG-11 had liberated from the Nikto mercenaries. He calculates his small troop should reach the mount in the next couple of minutes.

Behind him, he hears Talia speaking to the baby. He allows her elegant accent to provide a calming background noise as he continues to lead them. A big part of him is glad that none of her droids have joined them. However, his delight is short-lived when he remembers _where_ they are at the moment, specifically R6 and P-1.

Before they left the _Star_ , R6 approached him and Talia, saying that the _Crest_ ’s communications needed repairing. It seemed that whenever its mistress hailed the astromech while using the _Crest_ ’s comms, the transmissions were not only filled with static but were also slow to reach the _Star_. Of course, Din’s defenses rose at the mention of his ship being inferior, and he was ready to kick R6 onto its back when the bucket of bolts declared that it had not heard a worse comms since the time when one of their Republic light cruisers from the Clone War got shot down on Togoria.

That droid was lucky Talia was there to act as interpreter for it. In a very diplomatic manner, she explained that perhaps the _Crest_ ’s comms should be worked on. After all, their two ships would need to have strong, uncompromised communication due to the fact that they were planning to travel together. Though her words made sense, Din glared at the metal nuisance for pointing out this problem. So, he reluctantly agreed. But before he could say he would take a look at his ship’s comms later, Talia volunteered R6 and P-1 to do it.

His spine straightens as he thinks about the tense conversation he had with his female companion. He did not trust the astrodroid near the _Crest_ ; for all he knew, R6 would more than likely sabotage it rather than fix it. But Talia made her tin-can promise to help. She also insisted P-1 join it because R6 would not be able to access the cockpit. Din mistrusted droids as it was, yet he relented at P-1’s enthusiasm in serving “Master Mando.” For some strange reason—and not from Talia’s influence—that helium talking pit droid had made it a priority to ensure that he is well-served while being a guest onboard the _Star_.

The rise in the terrain is only thirty feet away, so the bounty hunter signals for Talia and the cart to halt and remain behind him. He moves forward alone and stoops himself at the waist, turning his head left then right so he can study his surroundings even more. Just because he and IG eliminated the Nikto threat over three months ago does not mean he should drop his guard. Besides, the compound may be occupied by new mercenaries since Kuiil visited and took IG back with him to his homestead.

Like last time, he settles himself on the hard dirt. Down below, in a rocky valley, sits their destination. It looks deserted to him, but he is not going to risk the baby’s life by a mere glance. He pulls out his scope. Behind him, he overhears Talia tell the little one to stay where he is. Din silently huffs, doubting she will be obeyed.

Gazing through his scope he sees that the compound is a ghost town. The bodies of the mercs are still littering the ground, and he even spies a small flock of scavengers crowding around a pile of sunbaked corpses.

He hears Talia shuffling a few feet away from him, so he tears his eyes from his scope. Turning his head to the right, he finds her crouching on the dirt. He blinks as the sunlight bounces off her crisp white shawl which she has wrapped around her head. The tunic she is wearing is half-sleeved with a V-neck collar, and its color is taupe with a simple tan pattern. Its bodice fits Talia perfectly while the rest of it flows past her hips. Its hemline almost hides the fact that she has a leather belt settled on her waist. Her right side has a holster containing her silver DE-10 blaster pistol, and her left is boasting her lightsaber. And he would not put it past her to have a small vibrodagger hidden somewhere on her person.

Down below she has donned dark brown trousers and a pair of knee-high boots of the same color. Well, _to him_ , they look like boots. He did not watch Talia put them on, but from what he can see, she is wearing some kind of slipper that stops above her ankle, after which a bandage-looking strip of material then wraps around her leg all the way up to her knee, thus giving the appearance of a boot. He figures this footwear is good for a desert environment so sand or small pebbles do not creep their way into her shoe.

She is currently gazing at the compound while fiddling with her leather hand-wraps. In a low voice, she murmurs to him, “So, that’s it then?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he replies, still watching her. He is curious to know what she thinks of the mercenary headquarters and its layout.

After giving him a hum, Talia removes her white shawl. He is not sure why she would do that since it had been the only thing blocking her from the heated morning. But he soon realizes that she is simply re-adjusting it.

As she begins to wrap it on her head again, he catches sight of her black cord necklace and its pendant, her _Beskaryc Kar’ta_ *. It had been a farewell gift from two young Dxun warriors, Lance Ryk’ken and Rami Nader. The Mandalorian symbol, a thin vertical hexagon, rests delicately against her neck. Though it has a length of three centimeters and a width of one, it is large enough to bounce off the sun’s rays. The Iron Heart’s outline, forged in bright bronze, compliments its polished ebony center.

 _(_ * _pronounced: BES-kar-EESH Kah-ROH-ta; translation: “Iron Heart”)_

Din notices droplets of sweat slowly running down her throat, but Talia uses the end of her shawl to soak them up. This action causes flyaway hairs to stick to her skin like inky veins. She had styled her molasses locks into a thick, rope-like braid that starts at the back of her head and hangs down to her waist. However, her shorter hairs at the front have escaped the style and are dangling from her forehead to her cheeks.

“It’s impressive,” she says, pulling his attention back to the compound.

After giving the valley another quick look, he shrugs his shoulders, answering, “I’ve seen better.”

“Well, what I mean is,” she explains, “it makes me wonder if the mercs built it or if they moved in.” She pauses as he puts away his scope. “How long do you think they were here?” she wonders aloud.

“No idea.” He scoots away from the ledge and rises to his feet. “Guess that’s what we’re gonna try to find out.”

He returns to the cart, surprised the baby is still on it, but he figures Vandar did not want to leave his shade. Moving past him, the bounty hunter grabs his jet-pack and fastens it behind him.

“Stay here,” he tells his companion while making sure his gray cloak is hanging off to the side of his jet-pack. “I’m going to take a look.”

When he receives only a coo from his adoptive son, he turns around to where he thought Talia was. Instead of standing behind him, he sees that she has not left her spot. Her petite figure is still crouched at the ledge, and he wonders what could possibly be so fascinating to her.

“Talia?” he asks, concern in his raspy voice. He places a gloved hand on his holstered pistol just in case. “Talia!”

She must have been deep in her thoughts because her shoulders jerk as if startled. “Yes?” she replies, glancing at him. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

 _I’m more interested in what you were thinking,_ he silently tells her while releasing his hold on his weapon.

“I’ll go down there first,” he repeats as he strides to the west. “Just to make sure everything’s quiet. I’m not going to risk the kid unless I’m know no one’s there. I’ll contact you when it’s all right.”

Before she can protest, he turns on his jet-pack and flies towards a slot canyon that will give him access to the compound’s west side. He used that route last time when he approached IG—who ended up shooting at him even after he ordered it to stand down. His jet-pack should get him there much faster.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

Talia watches as her fellow Mando flies away without another word. His handsome Beskar armor, all silver and polished, gleams in the sunlight, reminding her of a falling star.

Rising, she says to Vandar, “No one’s down there. I could’ve told him that if he let me.”

With a shake of her head, she walks over to her repulsorlift cart. The baby coos at her in a way that sounds like a question. She clears her mind and uses the Force to reach out to her Apprentice. His big brown eyes squint at her, and she can feel him trying to connect with her. The Force flows through her like a melody, one that she wishes to convey compassion and openness to Vandar so he can know that he can be honest with her. She can sense a question and concern rising in him at a slow yet steady beat. As she focuses on both, it grows to a crescendo, and she realizes that he wants to know where his adoptive father had gone. Thankfully, the baby has not dwelt on these apprehensions long enough to be overly fearful; however, she knows she must be quick to console him.

“We’ll see him soon,” she tells Vandar with a reassuring smile.

His pointy green ears twitch upward, and he releases a warbled, “Eh?”

Her smile grows into one of endearment. “Yes, it won’t be long.”

Though she is glad that Din is taking safety measures, she wishes she could have ventured to the compound herself. There is something . . . hollow about the place. She is mindful that it is where he and an IG-unit found the baby, but she can feel an echo of the Force emanating from the U-shaped settlement.

Not wanting to stand around and do nothing, Talia presses a button on her gauntlet, commanding her cart to follow her. She may as well find a walkable route for her and Vandar to take while she waits for her over-protective companion to give her the all-clear.

She heads east for a couple of minutes before finding a fairly smooth downward slope that will lead them into the valley. About halfway in her descent, a sense of caution advises her to find cover behind a rocky formation, and she feels a rush of prickles racing across the back of her head like goosebumps. While she waits for Din to contact her, she removes the sensation from the forefront of her mind. She then allows the steady hum of the repulsorlift to relax her; its subtle noise reminds her of a swarm of insects known for buzzing throughout the Onderonian jungles.

Her impromptu refuge, she sees, is surrounded by more rocks, giving her and Vandar a welcoming break from the sun. This desert planet would have been easier for her to tolerate if she had not spent so many discouraging months stranded on a similar one. Like Arvala-7, Tatooine can also have mountainous canyons, razor-sharp rocks, and unforgiving dry heat. And much to her dismay, the harsh memories linked with that specific world always resurfaces whenever she roams across a terrain remotely akin to it.

As a way of distraction, she skids her foot across the ground, rustling up smooth and jagged pebbles against her boot. A murmuring wind ripples softly from the south, its invisible fingers beckoning her closer to that disquieting echo originating from the Nikto compound.

A coo from the baby rouses her. When she looks at him, there is a slight frown on his green lips, which is most unlike his usual, happy demeanor. Interested, she watches him turn his head from her to the huge rock pile sitting in front of them. He is feeling unsettled about something—that much she understands. Yet, she highly doubts it has to do with the boulders.

She taps into the Force and relies on her connection with her Apprentice to shed some light on his uneasiness. His nervousness feels personal, sad, like a lament that he would prefer not to remember.

 _So,_ _it’s not the rocks,_ she decides, searching deeper. After a few more seconds, she then realizes it is what lies _beyond_ the heap that is worrying him.

For a moment, a sliver of concern for Din sends a chill down her spine, but she dismisses it. She has developed a strong enough bond with him to know when he is in danger, and right now, she senses nothing.

“It’s the compound, isn’t it?” she realizes aloud. She moves closer to the baby and kneels beside the repulsorlift. When he turns his little body in her direction, she gives him a sympathetic smile. Running a gentle finger across his ears, she asks him, “What happened there, youngling? Bad memories?”

“Neh-eh?” he babbles back to her.

She focuses on the Force and is about to close her eyes for a brief meditation session when a gravelly voice pierces through the still air: _“It’s all right here, Talia. Bring the kid.”_

A sigh escapes her before she can stop it. “I guess we’ll have to do this later,” she apologizes to Vandar. “Come on. Let’s not keep him waiting.”

Standing up, she retreats from their brief cover and guides them down into the rock-strewn valley.

Before her is a stretch of open ground. Heat rises from the hardpan dirt, and the sun’s rays make her destination appear to shimmer as if she is gazing through a sheet of water. She can see her fellow Mando waiting for them at the mouth of the compound, his Beskar looking almost molten rather than the solid metal she knows it to be. A small part of her wonders how he is faring in this awful heat with his layers of clothing and armor. Though her own garments are loose and designed to help keep her cool, she is anxious to find some shade.

The walk to the compound feels longer than it should be, yet Talia refuses to complain. She has travelled to and across other planets with climates more discomforting than this.

Her friend greets her with a curt nod before turning his helmet-covered head to what seems to be a seven-building settlement laid out in a rigid _U_. There are three houses situated on the west, or left side; one, the main building, in the middle; and two in the east. She is just about to count how many moisture vaporators the compound has, but she is accosted by a sight and smell that churn her stomach.

A flock of carrion birds with leathery wings are tearing into what was left of the Nikto mercenaries. The nauseating stench of rotting flesh baking in the Arvalan sun prompts Talia to cover her nose with her head-wrap. Unfortunately, the horrible odor goes through the thin, white material as if it is not there at all. A pair of scavengers screech at her and her companions before returning to the putrid feast that has made them greedy and stout.

Talia now knows what kind of an echo it is that she had sensed from the ridge: death. It had visited this arid region—the valley reeks of it. The carrion birds, fat and slow in flapping their fibrous wings, have thrived on Death’s merciless labor. The display of its twisted proficiency compels her to stop walking, and she stares at her surroundings.

The scene before her is something she has witnessed countless of times. Much to her regret, she has even participated in her fair share of bringing about an event like this. But she has never grown accustomed to it.

 _“And the day you do,”_ her master had once told her, _“is a day to worry.”_

Her earlier discomfort of the sun, the heat, the Tatooine memories, melt away like vapor. Somehow, she registers Din checking up on the baby behind her, but she remains where she is as if her boots are stuck in cement. Briefly, she closes her eyes, trying to cope with the tiny ripple in the Force that sends dread rolling from her scalp to her neck.

As her gaze studies the sandy-colored buildings, she takes in the blackened splotches of laser fire. She then focuses beyond the blemishes and onto the indents, seeing that Death’s mark had scratched its ruthless claws on the walls. Like ugly bruises that can only be scrubbed away, they speak of a miniature battle that resulted in a lone survivor. The Force drones from one end of the compound to the next in a deep baritone voice, and Talia can feel her heart slowly throb inside her chest as if it is beating in tandem with each step of a funeral procession.

Moving further into the settlement, she finds herself fiercely hoping that Vandar is not haunted by the memories of this place. How much does he remember of his last visit? And why was he here to begin with? Was he treated well? How long had he stayed locked up in the main building until Din came along to get him?

 _Oh, Din._ Something buried deep inside her chest squeezes. She glances over her shoulder at him, finding that he has his back to her so he can refresh himself with a canteen of water.

He and IG were responsible for the lives lost that day over three months ago. She gazes at the decaying bodies of the green- and peach-skinned Niktos, counting at least seventeen. They could be thieves or murderers—perhaps both. For all she knows, they might have kidnapped Vandar and wanted to ransom him. But despite these assumptions or whatever the truth may be, they were still people. The Living Force had once flowed through their veins as it does with any individual or creature, and for as long as she can remember, she was taught to value life, even if a person appeared to be undeserving of it—like the Separatists in the Clone War. Or stormtroopers and Inquisitors who either blindly followed orders or embraced the corruption of the Empire.

Whenever she is cornered into activating her lightsaber, she has disciplined herself to prepare both her mind and her feelings to cope with the aftermath and the echo of Death. She is not guiltless in this matter, nor is she the ideal Jedi who remains utterly engrossed in using the Force as her defense. Nevertheless, there are times—maybe too many—when she has found herself almost enjoying the thrill of combat and the havoc that it creates.

Her feet move of their own volition, guiding her past more corpses and carrion birds. A horde of flies zigzag together in an amoebic cloud of black dots. Their delicate wings release a vibration sound across the suddenly thick, late morning air. She finds it disturbing, like she usually does, when she remembers there will often be some form of life revolving around, thriving on, so much death.

A heaviness wraps itself around her heart like a cloak. In the last thirty years, her path has steered her to fighting. Each of her homes—Dxun, Onderon, the Jedi Order—had a militaristic streak in them. The Clone War and the Rebellion have molded her into a reluctant warrior. Blood, battle fatigue, torture, wounds, disfigurement, death—she has seen them all. Perhaps enough to last two lifetimes. She is not a stranger to a scene such as the one before her.

So, why does she feel shaken as she absorbs the small battlefield here? The ripples in the Force, though tiny, touch her soul and make her heart drop.

Movement diverts her attention from these dismal thoughts. She watches Djarin saunter towards the east side of the compound, side-stepping decomposing Niktos. As always, there is a minor swagger in his gait. A gust of wind, mournful and lonely, picks up his gray cape, causing it to flap behind him. His Beskar bounces off the sunlight while he slowly turns his head right then left as if he is re-living the incident before him. What is he thinking? She sees his shoulders broaden the longer he looks around him, and after a few moments, she now realizes why she is bothered by this . . . this massacre—for that is exactly what it is.

Before they met, the silver-armored Mandalorian had arrived on Arvala-7 in search of a quarry, a prize worth its weight in pure Beskar. During their travels, he told her that he did not know he had been tasked with tracking a child. The commission was odd because his client gave him very little information. He had just been notified of his quarry’s age—which proved to be incorrect—and of a warning that no bounty hunter had been successful in completing the job.

And that was all it had been to him and to others from his line of work: an impersonal assignment that resulted in a handsome reward. It did not matter how the hunters fulfilled the bounty, who got in their way, or how long it took them to complete. Their goal was the same, and Talia tears her gaze away from the results of this messy occupation.

With heavy steps, she walks towards the main building snuggled in the middle of the compound. The urge to put walls between her and the uncovered gravesite is too strong for her to ignore. Though she had left a similar battlefield on Galidraan two days ago, this one here is different. It repulses her to think that all of this trouble and blood and death was for credits.

Her jaw clenches as the reality of her companion’s profession sinks in. She knows he is a bounty hunter; she _knows_ what kind of life those people lived. By Dxun! she had run into too many during her years as a Jedi and as Clan Leader. A majority of the Japrael residents shun any kind of _beroya_ *—and for good reason, too. Mainly because there is no honor, no true code, in that lifestyle. So, why is she barely registering this now?

 _(_ * _pronounced: bair-OY-ah; translation: “bounty hunter”)_

The door to the central building is right in front of her, but she becomes sidetracked by a mobile laser cannon. It is facing the deep black hole acting as the building’s front door. Craning her neck back and forth between the two, she pays special attention to the stone edges of the threshold and doorframe. It is then she pieces together that the cannon had been used to breach the building.

 _Clever_ and _resourceful,_ she thinks. But honestly, she is not surprised by the discovery. Djarin, she reminds herself, is a long-standing member of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild, which had once been famed by the Hutts of Tatooine.

A while back, he mentioned off-handedly that he had a reputation of being the best hunter a parsec from Nevarro, the Guild’s new headquarters. At the time, she nodded and found herself overlooking the boast. Not because she doubted him. She was just aware of another Mandalorian who was known throughout the entire galaxy as being the cleverest and the most dreaded hunter.

As she returns her attention to the laser cannon again, she realizes that those blaster-shot burns on the walls of the surrounding buildings are too large to have come from a pistol, or even a rifle. Either Djarin or the IG-unit must have turned the Niktos’ weapon against them. Her eyes drop to her dusty boots when she answers her own unspoken question.

 _He did this,_ she says to herself, ignoring her companion as he walks around the bodies littering the compound. He heads straight for her, and she forces the Nikto lumps on the ground out of her peripheral vision.

Reviewing the evidence of his handiwork, along with IG’s, sheds a different light on him. She is tempted to turn away from the revelation, to close her eyes and pretend he is not responsible for this. But she knows that will be foolish. She _must_ see him with his scars and stains, just as he has seen her. If she truly does consider him to be a _vod_ *, she needs to accept him for who he is. Even if he has become a close . . . ally.

 _(_ * _pronounced: vohd; translation: “brother”)_

Inwardly shaking her head at her last thought, Talia strides into the main building. Though the drastic change of lighting nearly makes her blind, she welcomes the shadows. A tiny part of her wishes they can remove the sudden rush of heat in her cheeks.

Who is she trying to fool? Din Djarin had literally emerged from a five-year-old Force vision and trudged into her life when she least expected it. Even if she did not foresee his coming, she finds it alarming to conclude that she would have been as drawn to him in that circumstance as she is now. But that is not because she is forbidden from seeing his face, from looking him in the eye, from studying his expression. He simply has a way about him that intrigues her. How he carries himself, confident and firm, makes the corner of her lips twitch upward. His voice is laced with a raspy-ness that she has never heard before. He speaks bluntly to most people he encounters, and he treats Vandar with a rough gentleness that can be so endearing. Adding all of this with his excellent marksmanship and combat skills makes him . . .

 _Fascinating,_ her brain insists. _Charming even. But nothing more._

As she removes her head-wrap and allows her shawl to hang from her neck, she considers that perhaps she is getting too close to him. She has not allowed feelings for a male companion to develop into anything more. But with Din Djarin of Tribe Ordo, a man whom she has not seen but can easily relate to, she has to stop herself from nearing the line between friendship and . . . something else.

When she thinks further on it, she realizes that she does not remember having trouble with this before. After Surjay, she promised herself to abstain from entering into deep, non-familial relationships. Losing him was a hard—and also dangerous—lesson, one that she has no intention of repeating again, even after twenty years. Thankfully, Djarin seems indifferent to forming close attachments to everyone, including her.

 _Except for Vandar,_ she recollects, blinking her eyes so they can adjust to the dim lighting in the dusty room. She releases a quiet breath. _Oh, sweet Vandar!_

With the little one always following right behind his guardian, she knew back as far as Cholganna that she needed to change the path she had previously chosen for herself—despite the warning signs glaring at her. Djarin being a bounty hunter was a detail that she disliked but had grown to tolerate. At least, she thought she did. Since he does not act like a hunter, she has hardly seen him as one. A sense of honor, kindness, and humanity emanates from the man. That had made merging her path with his a very easy decision.

The main glimpse that she had of his bounty hunting ties was when he took that job with his old partner, Ran, and the disloyal man’s team. She had entered “Mando’s world,” which was only fair since he had been dragged into hers on Onderon. However, she would be lying if she did not acknowledge that she was disappointed in him. It was not due to the fact that he came from there but that he had _willingly_ chosen to return to it when he needed money.

On the other hand, she sensed that he felt uncomfortable with those mercs and how they behaved. After he finished the job, he seemed stiff whenever she brought it up. His responses were clipped, and there was a slight sharpness in his usually flat voice. Apparently, putting Vandar under his wing has given Djarin a new perspective; otherwise, he would not have tried to save that prison warden’s life when Xi’an, Mayfeld, and Burg had no qualms about adding murder to their charges of trespassing and treason.

But now, after staring at the compound where he had participated in a bloodbath with an assassin droid, an event that only took place because money was the reason . . . Talia feels herself doubting. Doubting him, her own decision to collaborate with him, her Code as a Jedi and a Dxun Mando. Since Djarin reverted to his old ways for credits just so he could support himself and the baby, she wonders if he will do that again if they are able to locate Vandar’s blood-people.

“Anything interesting?” a gravelly voice interrupts her thinking.

Though startled, she does not jump or even flinch. Her uncertainty about him makes her want to shrink away into a corner so she can meditate until she has fully come to terms with this old and new reality. Guidance from her master Zeb would be most welcome at the moment, but he has generally appeared to her through the Force in times of crisis.

 _And because I’m not going through one right now,_ she tells herself, _he won’t be showing up anytime soon._

“No,” she replies, her accent firm yet distant in her own ears.

As she uses the Force to steady her thoughts and conflicting emotions, she can sense reluctance rolling like a small wave from behind her. Since the baby is next to her, still sitting on the cart, she knows the feeling is originating from his guardian. He had not seemed hopeful that they would find any clues related to Vandar’s purpose on the planet, but she is determined to glean as much information here as she can—whether he likes it or not.

“I found the kid over there,” he reveals, strolling into the building. “Near that netting on top of the cargo.”

Her gaze wanders in that direction off to her right. Storage containers ranging from square to cylinder-looking shapes are stocked against the wall. The entire room is peppered with odds and ends. Dust and dirt have decorated the supplies like seasoning, coaxing her nose to release a sneeze. A door is also on her right, but it is currently sealed.

 _Good,_ she thinks as she presses a button on her wrist-band, commanding her cart to remain where it is. _If there’s anything of value here, at least the elements wouldn’t have ruined it._

While heading straight for the place where Vandar’s cradle had once been, she hears Djarin slowly closing the distance between them. She is not sure being around him is a good idea for her, so she finds herself saying, “I’ll check this building. Why don’t you search one of the others?”

She begins rummaging through the cargo boxes. After opening a case, she finds stale rations that smell of dried seaweed and fish. She winces at the odor and shuts the box.

As she moves onto the next one, she notices that Djarin has not left. But instead of repeating her suggestion or even asking if he would prefer to help her here, Talia remains silent. In less than a minute, she finishes searching for clues in the area where the baby’s cradle had been found.

“Do you want me to take the kid?” she hears Djarin ask.

“If you want,” she quietly replies, moving to another section of the room. Her eyes scan over speeder parts, tools, and broken power cells.

“You sure you want to split up?” he double-checks, his tone sounding more professional than concerned. “We could miss something the other might catch.”

He has a point, and she knows it. Their backgrounds have given them both different perspectives. It would be best if they searched together despite the desire that she has of wanting to be left alone. She must be patient with her strong, swirling feelings about his profession and not allow them to distract her.

 _“Through passion,”_ the Grey Jedi Code whispers to her, _“bound in patience, there is knowledge.”_

“All right,” Talia murmurs but keeps her back to him so she can focus on relying on the Force to help her complete the task at hand. She never has been very good at Moving Meditation, but she may as well try if she hopes to settle her doubts while working with her bounty hunter companion.

“There should be a body here,” he remarks bluntly.

Sensing confusion and unease from him, Talia stops searching and joins him. Djarin is near the place where he had first found the youngling; his head is tilted downward. Curious, she follows the direction of his visor. A big blotch, reminding her of spilt motor oil, is coloring the ground. She kneels to get a better look and realizes that the stain is not black but a dark forest green.

 _Blood,_ she says to herself as a tiny echo from the Living Force tickles her senses. _Nikto blood._

“And that door was open when I came,” she hears him remark.

Rising, she figures aloud, “So whoever was here was the last line of defense.”

“Some defense. I shot him point-blank,” Djarin argues in such a flat tone that she feels her back stiffen. “He shouldn’t have—”

“I know your aim is deadly,” she interrupts, trying to keep out any sharpness from entering her voice. “But,” she adds as she points to a green blood trail leading to the closed door, “it seems this Nikto survived.”

“He couldn’t have gotten far,” he mutters. Like lightning, he brushes past her and commands the door to open.

At first, Talia wants to scoff at his determination to find another corpse. Was not seeing the courtyard decorated with rotting Niktos enough for him? Or is this a pride-matter? Is Djarin so irked that one merc cheated death because he was not as efficient in eliminating a target as he thought?

The last idea makes her wince: she knows she is being unfair. Even though she has seen an unpleasant side to him, she should not allow that to define who he has been since she met him. Instead, she must welcome the possibility of a survivor. If the Nikto is alive, perhaps they can track him and find more answers concerning the youngling.

“Come along, Vandar,” she breathes, retrieving the little one from the repulsorlift. “We may be onto something.”

With the baby in her arms, Talia follows his guardian out the side-door. Every few steps or so, her eyes flicker down to where a steady track of dried blooddrops is staining the dirty floor. She goes left then right, catching the tail-end of Djarin’s gray cloak when she turns the corners. The blood trail, she observes, soon becomes less prominent the further into the building they go.

In a matter of moments Djarin guides them down a dimly lit hallway connected to a short flight of stairs leading down. At the bottom is a door—but not just any door. From what she can see, it is a thick, steel blast-door. Its access panel is streaked with blood, forest green but dull in color compared to the silver buttons installed there. She watches Djarin command the barrier to open, yet nothing happens. He releases a frustrated huff before trying another switch. Again, the door remains closed, so he rams his gloved fingers into every single button on the panel.

“ _Haar’chak_ *,” she hears him mutter under his breath.

 _(_ * _pronounced: HAR-chak; translation: “Damn it”)_

When she feels the baby wiggle in her arms, Talia glances down at him only to find a pair of sparkling brown eyes fusing with hers. Vandar gives her a small smile that reminds her of Master Yoda when he knew a secret but would keep it to himself. It seems to her that the baby more than remembers this section of the building.

“Back up,” Djarin tells her gruffly.

Before she can ask why, she notices him reaching for one of the many circular detonators clipped to his belt. Quickly, she grabs his hand to stop him from even touching one. He does, yet she senses annoyance flowing from him.

“No need for violence, Djarin,” she states, releasing his hand.

“And using your laser-sword isn’t?” he tersely throws at her.

Her first instinct is to roll her eyes at him or to retaliate by saying something about Mando men and their weapons—religion indeed! As an alternative, she simply hands him the baby. It takes him a full second to respond and hold Vandar, making her wonder what his expression is underneath that helmet of his.

Squeezing herself past him, Talia stands in front of the door. She lays her leather-covered hands against the barrier, and the steel is cold to the touch. For no more than three seconds, she closes her eyes, concentrating on the Force. Time stands still, and the Force responds to her in a cheerful manner like a flute. It rolls through her in a steady rhythm as she senses the mechanics and wiring keeping the door firmly in place. The layers of steel and other metals vibrate beneath her fingertips, humming with energy, and she can feel the barrier’s mechanisms rotate in her favor.

On the fourth second, she opens her eyes, steps back, and waves a hand across the door from left to right. It unlocks and slides away in a loud swoosh.

Disappointment pricks her heart the moment after the scent of rotting flesh fills her nose. It sweeps over the three of them like a wave, causing her to cough. Her stomach recoils at the smell, but she refuses to retch. Behind her, she hears Djarin try to swallow a cough of his own while the baby sneezes.

“He shouldn’t,” she chokes out, “come down here.”

“He’s seen worse as it is,” the bounty hunter replies in a guttural voice. “You can’t shield him from everything.”

Talia grips the doorframe in an attempt to overcome the awful odor. Her movement must have triggered the lights because the underground room is suddenly illuminated before them.

The basement is about half the size of the main room on the first level, and it looks like some kind of laboratory, medical-bay, and communications center all rolled up into one. She steps further inside, her gaze scanning its contents while her nose continues to breathe through the putrid smell.

On her left is what appears to be a med-bay and lab. There are scanning equipment, cabinets and counters, an exam table, shattered vials and test tubes, and a med-droid that has been destroyed by several blaster shots. In the center is a round holo-table and built-in computer. Disappointment prods her again when she takes in multiple black burns of laser-shots piercing its smooth metal. Behind the holo-table is an extra-long terminal that can seat three people and seems to have the ability to communicate off-planet. Or at least, it did. Like the most of the apparatus in the room, it has also been a victim of sabotage.

She strides further into the basement, still not sure where that horrible aroma is coming from. As Djarin follows right behind her, a sense of dread sends prickles across her scalp. Following her nose—which she doubts will get used to this smell—she walks around the holo-table. On the other side of it is the decaying corpse of a Nikto.

Thankfully, his eyes are closed. Perhaps he died in peace. His face, though expressionless, is a mustard yellow. Her gaze lingers on the blaster shot that ended up killing him: point-blank in his chest, just like Djarin said. In the mercenary’s last moments, he had been clutching his wound with one hand while holding a pistol in the other. A pool of dry, forest green blood is beneath him, and Talia surveys more of it decorating one of the holo-table’s panels like finger painting.

“That’s him,” Djarin says beside her, as if she needs his confirmation. “He shot this place up before he died. Wonder why.”

Facing the holo-table, Talia breathes through her mouth and releases it through her nose. Despite the fact that the data on the terminals were meant to be unrecoverable, she hopes she can still manage to retrieve something from them. If only she had R6 with her. He is exceptional in repairing and decrypting computers.

 _Guess I’m on my own for the time being,_ she inwardly sighs before making a mental list of the things she will need. _And it looks like I’ll be taking a lot of stuff back for him and P-1 to recover._

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_She’s judging me,_ he thinks to himself as he removes a metal panel from one of the destroyed terminals. _She has to be. Why else would she be so quiet?_

For the past two hours, he has been working with Talia to revive the computers. And they have done so in general silence. Though she still interacts with the baby, she has been unusually withdrawn towards himself. When she does speak to him, her voice is louder than a whisper yet quieter than a murmur. He also noticed she is calling him ‘Djarin’ now, and not in the teasing way she used to.

Earlier, she had stared an awfully long time at the compound’s entrance where the Nikto bodies are lying on the desert ground. Though half of her face was covered by her head-wrap, he knew her well enough by now to be able to read her body language. Her shoulders had a slight slump to them, and her gait was uncertain. Since then, he had caught a glimpse of her eyes, but what he found swirling in their dark depths just confirms his suspicions. He saw sorrow and even disappointment in them.

As he twists some severed wires together, he thinks about how she used her Force to remove the dead Nikto from the basement. She looked so sad, as if she had known him. He is sure she would feel differently if that merc had tried to ambush her like he did to him. Why should she care about the Nikto? About any of them? He is willing to bet these mercenaries had been low-life pirates. Why else would they be holding a kid here? She should be grateful he had come along to save Vandar.

There is something about her that reminds him of when they met with Ran. Her face is stoic, yet her eyes are taking in everything with such precision that almost nothing passes her by. Back then, he knew she did not like Ran or his team—but neither did he. During that job, he had felt her tense up beside him when Mayfeld or Ran said something that she strongly disagreed with. And now, as she uses a hydrospanner to fix the holo-table’s controls, he can see that her shoulders are stiff, and her movements mechanical.

Her lightsaber scratches against the side of the table. He has not seen that weapon in its full glory since she showed him its components. When the door to the basement was lodged in place, he was sure she was going to activate it so she could slice it open. He should have known that she would use the Force instead. Talia considers herself to be a Jedi first, a Mando second. Maintaining peace will always be her priority rather than violence.

Well, she can truly believe that if she wants to. Yet, from what he has heard and seen, the two of them are very similar: fighters, warriors. And they are both good at it, too. Whether she realizes this or not is her own problem. He may not have led men into battle like she did during the Clone War, but he has had his fair share of eliminating targets when the odds were stacked against him. She protected the kid on Dxun, saving him from bounty hunters. He did the same here on Arvala-7—even if he did not know it at the time. Then, on Galidraan, she helped him dispatch stormtroopers with such efficiency that any Mando would be proud to have fought alongside her. And he was. He still is.

So, why is this three-month-old battle aboveground bothering her? It was a question that has been floating inside his helmet, and he now knows the answer: it is because she dislikes his job. Her entire planet distains bounty hunters; the people consider it an occupation without honor. He even agrees with that opinion. His last assignment with Ran and the team had made it clear to him. Perhaps too clear. He is not proud of the things he has done in the past to complete a bounty, yet since the kid waltzed into his life, he has found himself at odds with doing jobs for credits’ sake. That is why he ended up helping those krill farmers on Sorgan and trying to save Davan’s life on the prison ship.

 _But she promised not to judge,_ he inwardly growls while replacing a ruined power converter with a new one. _Or is that promise no longer valid after she came clean about being a Jedi?_

“I’m turning it on,” he hears the woman in question announce. Her accent is devoid of emotion.

“Fine by me,” he mutters as he steps away from the terminal. He searches for the kid, finding him about to pop a screw into his mouth. “Don’t,” he warns.

Vandar gives him a pleading look, but his guardian ignores it and walks over to him. He pockets the screw before picking up the green baby. As Talia successfully connects the power generators to the computer, he sets Vandar on the holo-table so he can see the outcome.

The table flickers on a holoprojection of a warning in Galactic Basic, demanding the correct password to the terminal. He watches Talia pull out a data-pad and plug it into the computer with three cords. With quick fingers, she types away on the hand-held device. She said slicing was a hobby of hers, and he wonders if her skill will be enough to grant them access.

“I have something,” she murmurs, either to him or the baby—he is not entirely sure.

In the next second, a blue hologram appears of the Nikto they had found here in the basement. Vandar coos at the recording and shuffles closer. The merc is heavily leaning on the computer while putting pressure on his blaster wound. Blood is spilling over his gloved fingers. Though the sound of the recording is fuzzy with static, the Mandalorian can hear the Nikto gasping for breath. His image is blurry then becomes clear before flickering inconsistently.

 _“Garos!”_ the hologram gasps out in his native tongue. _“It’s Rannis. We, we were under attack. Again.”_ The Nikto coughs then spits out some blood onto the ground. _“We thought we could handle it, like before. But this time, it was, it was a Mando_ _and an IG droid.”_ This Rannis inhales a wheezy breath, and the bounty hunter knows his shot was sucking the life out of the Nikto. _“T-they slaughtered the men,”_ the holographic figure continues before pressing a button on the console.

His image is replaced with that of a recording of Din and IG-11 working together to dispatch the Niktos. He watches himself take out the merc manning the laser cannon before jumping onto the weapon and using it to shoot down the others. A part of him wants to drop his eyes from the scene. He does not need to see it again; he had lived it. The last thing he wants is to be reminded of how unfeeling and selfish his mindset was at that time.

The footage freezes, and Rannis appears again. _“Garos,”_ he says, choking on his blood, _“they, they took the asset! I’m so sorry. W-we tried to stop them._ I _tried. W-where are you?”_ he demands, despair coloring his hoarse voice. _“You’ve been gone f-for ten months! Your meeting shouldn’t have t-taken this long! If you receive this message, tell your boss we, we failed.”_

He watches Rannis aim his pistol at the computer. His hand is shaking as if he is going through withdrawals from spice rather than fighting for his life. The instant Rannis pulls the trigger, the hologram turns off.

“Where’d he send this message to?” he asks Talia.

“I don’t know,” she says, pressing more buttons on her data-pad. The white shawl wrapped around her head pales her tanned complexion considerably, and he convinces himself it is because of the strange lighting in the room. “The encryption is beyond my skill,” she admits. “But I’ve found some messages from this Garos he was talking to. Some go as far back as two years.”

The news startles him. Have these mercs, or whoever they were, been on the planet for that long? And were bounty hunters sent here to retrieve the kid that whole time? No wonder Kuiil was tired of his home being disturbed by blaster fire and death.

“Pull up one of the older messages,” he tells his companion.

She does not nod at him, nor does she look his way. Instead, her attention is captured by her data-pad. He is about to repeat his sentence when the holo-table displays another image—this time of a male Zabrak. Din finds it interesting that the baby releases an excited coo at the still frame. His green pointy ears flap down while his lips form a fond smile.

 _So, the kid knows this guy,_ he thinks. He sees that Vandar’s reaction to the other man has not gone unnoticed by Talia.

Din studies the motionless Zabrak. The hologram is blue, preventing him from identifying the Near-Human’s skin tone. Like most from his species, this Zabrak has vestigial horns crowning around his bald head. He notices the man has facial tattoos marked with thin lines curving along his smooth cheeks and above his pale eyes. A grimace is on his lips, making him appear grouchy, yet he recognizes exhaustion’s shadow across the Zabrak’s expression.

The other man’s appearance reminds him of a warrior and a smuggler combined. The Zabrak is wearing a vest over a scratched breastplate and plain tunic. His trousers are simple, but his boots look to have seen better days. Two blaster pistols are hanging from his belt while an impressive vibro-dagger is strapped to his upper thigh.

 _“Rannis,”_ the Zabrak greets in a deep, accent-free voice. _“Garos, here. I scoured the Tarabba Sector. I can find no trace of the person we’re looking for. Not even a rumor. I’m moving on to the Elrood Sector. Over and out.”_

After the image flickers off, Din volunteers, “Tarabba is in the Outer Rim.”

“So is Elrood,” Talia supplies before pushing another button on her data-pad.

A second hologram of Garos appears. The first several seconds of the recording is warbled, and the sound is off. But it eventually clears up, allowing them to hear the Zabrak explain, _“I’m sorry your search came up empty. I thought the Trilon Sector would’ve given you something,”_ he sighs, his tattooed face etched with discouragement. _“I’m thinking of heading to Wild Space and search from there. But it’s too much ground to cover without a decent lead. Keep me posted, all right?”_

Once the recording shuts off, the Mandalorian glances at Talia. “Never heard of the Trilon Sector. You?”

She nods. “A planet in the Outer Rim called Rakata Prime is there. The natives had built an ancient empire long before the days of the Old Republic. They used the Dark Side of the Force in their technology.”

Why would these Nikto mercs be searching that specific sector in the Outer Rim? Obviously, they had been trying to find the baby. If the Rakatan natives were associated with the Force, Dark Side or Light, then that must mean Garos and the Niktos knew Vandar was gifted. But how did they hear of him? And why were they looking for him in the first place?

“Play another one,” he urges his companion.

The silence in the room is broken by the quiet tapping of her fingers on her data-pad. She tries to access more recordings, but the footage is far too damaged for them to understand what either Garos or Rannis is saying.

Frustration seeps into his blood. He impatiently taps his foot then stops when he realizes that the noise is causing Talia’s brows to furrow. So, he decides to pace around the holo-table instead. The baby whines at the lack of action, and Din finds himself sympathizing with him.

Another recording appears on the table. The blue image of Garos is clearer than the other ones, prompting Din to stand still and wait for it to play.

 _“Rannis!”_ the Zabrak greets with more enthusiasm than he has seen on the other man. _“I’m sorry my last holo-call was so short. And yes, I’ve found our asset.”_

“What? Already?” Din blurts out as Garos’ hologram flickers like a strobe light. How many messages did Talia have to skip in order to find a good one?

When the recording continues, Garos announces, _“I’ve gotten us to the planet—”_ The Zabrak’s voice is garbled, making his words imperceptible, and the bounty hunter tightly grips the edge of the table. _“You know, I was close to giving up, but—”_ Again, the message is distorted. _“So, I’m heading back,”_ Garos continues. _“You and the others will finally see what we’ve all been waiting for. Our asset—well, he’s a child actually. But nonetheless, he’s going to need our protection. It’s a good thing the Empire is falling apart. I’ll contact you soon. Over and out.”_

The Mandalorian wants to curse at Rannis for shooting up the computers. Because of Talia, he knows how special the baby is. Undoubtedly, the Niktos and Garos—plus whoever hired them—all knew that, too, which is why they wanted to keep Vandar safe from the Empire. Though he would have covered his tracks just like Rannis, he cannot stop from being upset that the answers to the baby’s origins and everything else are right in front of them. But they have been denied from learning more, for the records seem to be damaged beyond repair.

As Talia fiddles with her hand-held computer, the idea that these Niktos might not have been criminals and money-centered mercs hits him like a lightning bolt. Garos said the baby needed protection, which Rannis and his men would be providing. If Vandar was a prisoner or a weapon, he figures the Zabrak would have used the word _guarded_. Does this mean he and IG gunned down, in cold-blood, men who were simply keeping a baby safe?

He wants to shake his head, to storm out of the basement and into the fresh air. But the atmosphere all around the compound is tainted with the smell of decomposing bodies—bodies that he had dropped so he can be paid in pure Beskar.

“Let me try the next one,” he hears Talia offer, her accent yanking him back to the present.

“Is there any way you can recover them?” he gruffly asks. He needs to know who these Niktos were, why they were searching for the kid, and how long they had been given this task.

“Maybe,” Talia replies. “With R6’s help. I’m going to have to take the data back with me to the _Star_.”

He opens his mouth, ready to volunteer to bring her repulsorlift down here when another hologram of Garos materializes.

 _“I’m two days out,”_ the Zabrak begins with a small smile. _“Prepare the lab, Rannis. The child is proving to be as gifted as I expected. He’s a little malnourished, which is easily remedied. I’m being careful in feeding him. But I want to give him a full scan, just to make sure that’s all that’s wrong right now.”_

After the recording ends, the Mandalorian queries, “When was that received? Do you have a date?”

Talia glances at her data-pad. “About thirteen months ago.” She presses another button, pulling up a still image of Garos. “I wonder who he is. Or was.”

“And I wonder who hired him,” he mutters. Their boss must have been rich to keep nearly two dozen Niktos plus Garos employed for as long as they were. “I bet they had a patron,” he says louder, sending Talia a glance. “Probably a Hutt.”

“Then why not take Vandar to Hutt Space?” she ventures aloud. When he shrugs his shoulders, she turns her attention to the little one. “What we need is more information. Don’t we, youngling? The terminal’s data is corrupted and severely damaged.”

“Not to mention encrypted,” he throws in.

“I need R6 to take a look at this,” she sighs. “I’ll start removing the memory drives here. Djarin, can you do the comms system?”

 _She called me ‘Djarin’ again,_ he quietly notes but says nothing. He knows she will have to accept his past just like he must. And based on their history, he would not be surprised if they enter into another one of their famous arguments in the near future. So, rather than confronting the tension between them, he decides to leave it alone. For now.

In response to Talia’s petition, he sends her a curt nod and makes his way over to the communications section in the basement.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

For the next six hours, Din keeps himself busy. If he is not adding data-pads or hard-drives to Talia’s repulsorlift cart, then he is making sure the kid is behaving. More times than he wants to count, he has caught Vandar either chewing on the equipment or accidentally knocking them out of the cart.

Together, he and Talia have undertaken the arduous task of sweeping through each building in the compound one by one. They mostly find spoiled rations and dusty rooms. Much to his surprise—yet also delight—is the number of credits and valuables stashed away by the Niktos. At first, he thinks Talia would disapprove of them keeping the ownerless money. He half-expects her to declare that to claim the items would make them no better than looters. But she merely says, “For the youngling,” as she hands him a cargo box so he can toss the currency, jewelry, and gemstones inside.

It surprises the bounty hunter of what he has learned about the Nikto mercenaries just by rummaging through their belongings. So far, he has stumbled across a data-book collection of erotic romances—of all things! He counts at least ten decks of the Sabacc card game and three large boards of Dejarik. One building even has a gambling sheet, and he reads that a merc named Uto had owed money to half a dozen of his co-works. He also discovers a bunkroom filled with an assortment of rocks from, he assumes, different planets. Of all their findings, Vandar likes that one the most. The baby soon rolls the smoother rocks across the floor and even uses the Force to lift a few into the air.

The Niktos, it seems, had other kinds of entertainment that most people would consider not only to be illegal but also inappropriate. For instance, Din uncovers an alarming amount of spice hidden away in a mattress. Well, it is Talia who actually figures out the drug is on the premises—she is the one who smelt it above the stank, dirty laundry and lingering body odor. These men were awful in maintaining good hygiene! The _Crest_ smells better than a majority of the Niktos’ bunks.

And then there are the hand-held holoprojectors! About ninety percent of them feature a Twi’lek cantina dancer. This revelation would not have been so bad if Talia did not catch him watching a purple-skinned Twi’lek twirling around in a costume that looks as if it is missing key pieces to it. In his defense, the female dancer has an eerie resemblance to Xi’an, which stuns him so much that he cannot help from doing a double-take. Additionally, the holoprojector is more complicated than the others he has found. It has too many switches and buttons, and he forgets which one to press in order to shut it down.

He quickly tries to turn off the sensual footage, but the device slips from his gloved fingers, rolls across the room, and stops right in front of Talia. She glances at the upright holoprojector sitting before her boots and then returns her gaze to his visor. Against his will, the back of his neck begins to grow warm.

“Didn’t peg you as the type,” she comments, her elegant accent neutral.

“I’m not,” he states. He is not sure whether to blow the device to smithereens or to simply walk away, thus washing his hands of it.

“Is that so?” Talia asks. The arched eyebrow she sends his way is not an innocent enough response to hide the judgment that he feels coming from her.

Instinctively, he wants to defend himself, to say that it is not professional to be interested in the dancer. But when he sees the corner of her mouth twitch, he releases a breath he did not know he has been holding. It is a good sign that she is teasing him.

Glad that she does not appear to be so withdrawn at the moment, he decides to play along. So, he tilts his head at her, wordlessly saying, ‘Come now. You really think that of me?’

He is rewarded by a full smile—and even a quiet giggle. Talia shakes her head in amusement, and he can see her rope-like braid dangling behind her as if it is a long pendulum. He watches her extend a hand towards the holoprojector. In a flash, the device flies from the ground and is captured by her slim fingers. She presses a button—and he cannot see which one it is. The image of the purple Twi’lek turns off, allowing Talia to toss the holoprojector to him.

After he catches it with one hand, she asks, “Find anything important in this room? Other than the men’s extracurricular activities?”

“Nope.” He throws the device onto an unmade bed. The sheets boast of brown sweat stains. “So, what now?” he wonders since they have combed through the last building in the compound.

Talia shrugs her shoulders, causing her taupe-colored tunic to sway in the air. Her eyes flicker to the ceiling as she softly says, “I was thinking that maybe . . .”

Before she can finish, they both hear Vandar blurt out a long sentence in gibberish. As one, they crane their necks in the direction of the baby noise. Din’s gaze travels across the room, through the open doorway, out the building, and onto Vandar who is pointing at something just south of the compound.

“What is it, kid?” he demands, marching towards his adoptive child. Talia is right behind him.

The Arvalan sun glares down at them, reminding the bounty hunter how much cooler it is inside the building. His eyes want to close shut at the brightness, but he rapidly blinks them as an alternative. While he gives his vision time to adjust to being outside again, he angles his body in the general direction Vandar is pointing at.

In the distance, right at the edge of the desert valley, are short figures heading straight for them. Though the late afternoon heat makes the horizon appear watery to the human eye, it does not distort Din’s gaze so much, for he counts precisely fourteen figures—or midgets, considering how tiny in stature the members of the approaching party seem to be. He even notes that the midgets are wearing long brown robes with hoods.

One second after this observation registers in his brain, the Mandalorian feels himself snap to attention, and his hand grips his holstered pistol.

_Jawas!_

* * *

**Talia's Attire:**

**Garos, the Zabrak:**


	5. Chapter IV: A Little Trouble with Jawas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been almost a month since my last chapter, but this one is the longest I have ever written for my series. It's about 55 pages on Microsoft Word. Further apologies and an explanation of my absence will follow after. But for now, enjoy, dear Readers!!!

**Chapter IV: A Little Trouble with Jawas**

The late afternoon sun shines across the valley, raising the temperature of his body. His flight suit beneath his armor is beginning to grow even more damp with sweat as he and his companions wait for fourteen hooded midgets to close the gap between them. He finds himself hoping those thieving Jawas cook into oblivion under their grayish, brown robes—preferably _before_ they reach them.

As the scavenging pests near the entrance to the facility, the Mandalorian decides to pick up the baby and set him on Talia’s repulsorlift cart. The little one coos at the relocation, sending him a curious glance. His green ears flap down then up, but his guardian says nothing.

Talia, he sees, chooses that moment to stand in front of her cart, her taupe-colored tunic swaying from her movement. Her weapons twinkle in the sunlight, yet he doubts her new position is her way of telling the Jawas that her cart and its contents belong to them. That is why he decides to join her. Unlike her, _he_ has the need to convey that feeling, and he reinforces it by crossing his arms.

Thankfully, their findings are hidden from view by an old tarp he found an hour ago. At the time, he believed their stuff needed to be protected from the planet’s dirt and scorching heat. He blesses Mandalore for his forethought. The last thing that he wants right now is for the items they collected, such as data-pads, computer hard-drives, and other valuables—including his jet-pack—to be on display for the hooded Jawas to drool over.

His last thought prompts him to turn his attention back to the approaching rodents. Before he knows it, his jaw clenches as they shuffle themselves further into the rocky valley.

“Great,” he mutters to no one in particular. “Just what we need.”

First, Talia has been acting standoffish with him. And now, they are on the verge of being invaded by Jawas. His day is _not_ going well.

“I’m surprised they didn’t come sooner,” she replies, and he cranes his neck to his right so he can look at her. She is settling her crisp, white shawl over her head, allowing it to shield her from the sun. “The compound’s been deserted for months. Jawas are notoriously fast at stripping—well,” she quietly chuckles, “I don’t have to tell you that.”

She tries to hide an embarrassed smile, and he faces forward again. He glares at the little beasts while the distance between them shrinks. Against his will, he is transported back to his first visit on the planet. At that point in time, he had done the impossible: he had acquired the most difficult bounty in the Outer Rim; and he was returning to the _Crest_ —just to find it completely deprived of its parts by those squeaky talking, musky smelling, pirating rodents! His ship was rendered a metal skeleton, and he could not stop himself from taking delight in vaporizing a few of them with his rifle.

 _I should’ve brought it today,_ he thinks, tightening his folded arms. _It could come in handy again._

“Do you think they’re the same ones?” he hears Talia ask him. He is astonished that she sounds so . . . talkative, especially after how withdrawn she has been since they arrived.

Not wanting to lose any sense of comradery between them, he says, “Hope not.” His tone sounds too clipped in his own ears, so he scrambles for something to add. “It’s a good thing we’re here first,” he remarks, dropping his arms. “The compound’s ours now.”

“But we’re done with it,” she reminds him. “I think we have what we need.”

Automatically, he places a gloved hand on his holstered pistol. His eyes squint at the troop as he murmurs, “They don’t know that.”

He senses Talia shift on her feet. The movement is enough for him to realize the error in his words and the placement of his hand. He knows she already disapproves of his job as a bounty hunter and his role in eliminating the Nikto threat here. The tiny settlement still stinks of rotting flesh—though his nose has gotten used to it these past several hours. Yet, from the way Talia continues to breathe from her mouth, he figures she is not so lucky. The comment that he had just uttered is probably making her judge him more.

So, he forces himself to release his hold on his weapon. She will have to realize that he does not cross off anyone on a mere whim. He is not like most hunters, and she should know that by now.

The Jawas are less than a minute away from the compound’s entrance. Amongst their hooded figures, he notices that they are lugging a cart of their own with them. His ears are picking up the sound of metal rattling across the uneven, pebbly ground. Beside the cart is a DUM-series pit droid; he can identify its skinny arms swaying with every step. Since when have Jawas brought along droids during their scavenger hunts?

A hot wind blows in between the weathered buildings at the same time as the uninvited guests approach them. In the east, a small dirt devil twirls itself in a quick dance before dissipating. The plump scavenger birds screech at the troop of Jawas and then scatter. Their leathery wings flap in the sun-kissed air, carrying them north.

The Jawas’ pit droid starts waving at him and his companions. Its skeletal arm greets them with so much eagerness that it reminds the bounty hunter of another droid that he met recently. But it cannot possibly be the same one. Or can it?

“Tell me that’s not . . .”

“I’m afraid it is,” Talia answers, her accent flat. Why does she not sound as surprised and confused as he is?

“Mistress Talia! Master Mando!” P-1 shouts in its helium-sounding voice. “Thank the maker you’re still here!”

“Oh, stars.”

“You’re telling me,” Din retorts.

The group is a building’s length away from them. Instead of waiting for the Jawas to get closer, he watches Talia walk towards them. She lifts a leather-covered hand in welcome, saying in their native language, _“M’um m’aloo_ * _.”_

 _(_ * _translation: “Greetings. Hello.”)_

At this, P-1 runs to her and hides behind her leg. The droid’s captors squeak out their disapproval in Jawaese; then, they whip out their ion blasters. Seeing the weapons reminds the Mandalorian of when they used them to shoot at him, causing him to black out from the numerous electrical bolts. He swiftly joins his companion while gripping his holstered pistol. No one is getting zapped into unconsciousness, not this time.

Much to his annoyance, both of his movements cause the Jawas to point their blasters at him and Talia. Fourteen pairs of shining ruby eyes glare at him as a strong, musky odor assaults his nostrils like a wave, replacing the rotting corpses of the Niktos. In an instant, the little Jawas have them surrounded. His ears are filled with high-pitched voices jabbering so fast that he cannot understand a single word in the chaos.

 _“Ny shootogawa_ * _!”_ Talia quickly says to them. Her hands are in front of her as if she is trying to stave off an attack from an untamed animal. Her voice has a slight shrill in it, but the bounty hunter knows it is because speaking Jawaese can have that effect.

 _(_ * _translation: “Don’t shoot!”)_

Their hooded intruders continue to direct their ion blasters at them. They chatter on about a “bad man,” and he catches the words _dangerous_ and _killer_ amidst their squeaky dialect.

“Guess they’re the same ones,” he mutters to her. He squeezes his hold on his weapon.

“How many _did_ you . . . kill?” she asks. He is not sure, but he thinks she practically choked on the last word. His teeth clench when he thinks that she is still criticizing him at a time like this.

Through a tight jaw, he replies, “Just a handful.”

“I heard it was a dozen,” P-1 chimes in. It is still hiding behind Talia’s legs.

As the Jawas rattle on, the Mandalorian glances over his shoulder at the baby. Vandar is still on the cart, watching the scene with wide eyes. He finds comfort in knowing that the Jawas are more interested in him and Talia to even pay the baby or their cart any attention.

“And do you call seven ‘just a handful’?” he hears her query. When he turns to look at her, he catches the tail-end of her rolling her eyes.

“They had it coming,” he roughly insists over the fast-pace Jawaese floating on the heated desert air. “If they stripped the _Star_ , you wouldn’t have been happy either. But for the record,” he defends, “I only took out five.”

Two Jawas speak louder than their stinking relatives, but they are focused on Talia rather than him. She nods, listening for half a minute before translating to him, “Well, they’re saying you hurt two. But they consider them as casualties. That’s why they’re telling me that you took out seven of their members.”

Annoyance simmers beneath his skin. He wants to argue that what he did at the time felt right. If he thinks about it more, he is sure he would have done things differently, but seeing these pesky thieves again is eating away any patience he has today. He opens his mouth to argue with Talia and the Jawas, yet the former is waving her hands at the midgets, signaling them to lower their weapons.

Closing his mouth, Din releases a frustrated sigh and waits as Talia continues speaking Jawaese. He tries to glean as much information as he can from the conversation—which sounds more like an argument—but they are talking too fast for his brain to catch up. And P-1 interrupting here and there in Galactic Basic from its hiding spot is not helping either.

After a few moments, the Mandalorian gives up. He is only able to communicate in the Jawa Trade Language just enough for him to get by. From the unfamiliar words Talia is using, he doubts they are bargaining or discussing price ranges on the latest power cuplinks. He curses himself for not knowing more of Jawaese during his training on Tatooine with his _buir_ *. But how could she have known that learning this dialect would be as helpful as Tusken?

 _(_ * _pronounced: boo-EER; translation: “mother”)_

As he listens to the shrill chatter, he is amazed at how fluent Talia is in Jawaese. It seems almost natural to her, like Mando’a. How did she come to learn this language? He then reminds himself of her Force. Maybe that is helping her understand it. After all, she told him a few days ago that the Force did this when she was learning Wookie back on Kashyyyk.

He continues to pick up fragments of her conversation with the Jawas. Concentrating hard, he is able to translate certain phrases like “relax please” and “I’m sorry” and “lay them down.”

The hooded rodents have lowered their weapons by now, but they have not put them away. At Talia’s request to set them aside, the Jawas appear to grip their ion blasters even tighter. They fix their glowing red eyes on him and ramble off in Jawaese. He detects a slight growl in their voices which sounds strange considering how high their usual pitches are.

“What’s going on?” he demands of his fellow Mando.

Talia does not look at him; instead, her gaze travels across the cloaked figures surrounding them. “They want us to surrender our weapons to them,” she replies, her Coruscant accent quiet.

A scoff escapes his lips. _How short-term is their memory?_ he wonders to himself. _Don’t they remember from last time?_

“I don’t think so,” he firmly states.

“But Master Mando,” P-1 begs, “you must! Please.”

“I didn’t do that three months ago,” he snaps, causing the droid to flinch. “And I’m not going to do that now.”

He watches Talia, curious to know her reaction. But all she does is nod. Her expression is neutral, her tanned skin glowing from the heat. However, her eyes tell him that she had expected his answer.

“I’ll try to make a compromise with them,” she offers, to which he nods at with approval.

Talia speaks Jawaese and motions with her hands. Her voice demands attention, and for once, the Jawas are quiet, including P-1. He thinks he hears the word _move_ and the phrase “give us room,” but he is not sure until her command is actually being obeyed. The Jawas shuffle across the sunbaked ground, stirring up the dust with their long, gray-brown cloaks. They gather in front of him and Talia in a somewhat orderly fashion. The ones in the back, he notices, have holstered their ion blasters, yet he counts nine of them still clutching their weapons as if their lives depend on them.

Abnormal silence lingers between the Jawas and his group. When he glances at Talia, he is startled to find her dark eyes watching him intently. She has not looked at him like this at all today.

“Lay your pistol on the ground,” she tells him. “Right in front of you.”

He blinks at her, stunned that she is asking this of him. Has she forgotten who she is talking to? “You can’t be serious,” he protests, his raspy voice conveying the scowl that is forming on his lips.

The look she sends him says, ‘Just do it,’ but he cannot find it within himself to comply. So, he simply stares at her, his body as stationary as a mountain packed with unmined Beskar. He sees Talia press her dark pink lips together before breaking eye-contact. With graceful hands, she removes her DE-10 pistol from its holster and does exactly what she had instructed him: she sets it on the ground, right between herself and the Jawas. The Mandalorian-made weapon flashes silver in the sun.

And then, much to his disbelief, she removes her lightsaber from her belt and lays it beside her gun. The Jawas point at the simple-looking weapon and whisper amongst themselves. Some lean in closer so they can have a better look while others _ooh_ and _ahh_ over it. Din finds himself wondering if the sticky-fingered rodents are even aware of what a lightsaber is. But judging from how they end up taking a step away from Talia, they _must_ know. How is it possible that these Jawas have perhaps heard about a Jedi while he never did until his Armorer mentioned it to him last week?

Talia surprises him yet again when she lowers herself to the ground so she can sit cross-legged before her discarded weapons. Her white shawl flows down her shoulders as it continues to cover her head and long braid. He feels his eyes widen at how patient she seems sitting there as if she is waiting for a political discussion to begin. She then gestures for P-1 to stand with the Jawas—probably at their request. The droid obeys, but its metal shoulders are slumped.

 _“Please, Djarin,”_ Talia says to him in Mando’a. It does not escape him that she is still using his surname. After a moment, she glances at him over her shoulder. _“I need your help to get my droid back.”_

The temptation to groan, to argue that this is her mess and not his, almost overwhelms him. But he knows how much she depends on P-1 to assist her in maintaining the _Alabaster Star_ , and he admires her request for help. Yet, he is not comfortable giving in to these Jawas’ terms of being parted from his weapon.

So, he swallows hard before answering in their shared language, _“You know how Mandos feel about their weapons. My pistol’s my religion.”_

 _“And a lightsaber is a Jedi’s life,”_ she points out, her tone serious and reverent like it has been whenever she discusses her laser sword. _“But I still put it down as a sign of good faith.”_

The Jawas whisper to themselves, their ruby eyes flickering from him to Talia and then back again. He wants to bark at them to stay out of their conversation and to scold them for forcing him and his companion into this situation in the first place. His Mandalorian pride hardens his resolve, and he refuses to yield to these scavengers’ demands.

He hears Talia sigh as she faces the hooded thieves. _“I’m not asking you to give your pistol to them permanently,”_ she reasons, still talking in Mando’a. _“Just to set it aside for now.”_

“Please, Master Mando,” her pit droid implores him. It even has its metal hands pressed together in front of it as if P-1 is praying for him to meet the compromise that its mistress had arranged. The droid’s large photoreceptor, though black, gleams in the sunlight like a child’s eyes.

Din inwardly growls. He hates this, hates the idea of not having his gun by his side. But Talia cannot negotiate for the return of her droid without his cooperation. To make himself feel better, he curses at the stubbornness of Jawas. His experience with Kuiil over three months ago should have been enough to reinforce this lesson, yet he is still taken off-guard by the trait.

With extra force behind his movements, he finds himself yanking out his pistol from its holster. The action triggers the Jawas to raise their ion blasters higher at him. Gritting his teeth, he sets his weapon on the ground beside both of Talia’s.

 _“I better not regret this, Dewan,”_ he grumbles in Mando’a.

Annoyed at being dragged into more trouble with the thieving rodents, he also sits cross-legged on the hot ground next to his companion. Because he is positioned so close to her, he can feel her body heat radiating on his right side. He wonders if she is as hot as he is in the late afternoon sun.

 _“I appreciate this,”_ she whispers to him, but all he does is huff in response.

At long last, the Jawas lower their ion blasters. Shaking their hooded heads with approval, they eventually kneel across from them, ready to talk. The bounty hunter should feel some satisfaction that the pests are more than likely baking underneath their cloaks; however, he is overcome with relief that Talia is the one who must navigate this conversation. Diplomacy has never been his strong suite; he would rather use force, lethal or otherwise, to solve matters. And with the Jawas, a part of him would not mind applying the former.

Talia, it seems, looks relaxed as she speaks with the scavengers who are sitting at the front. The three prattling Jawas are pointing at the weapons on the dirt before motioning their arms in front of them, palms down, in a cross gesture. He does not need to know Jawaese to understand their meaning: if either he or Talia reach for their small arsenal, then the meeting will end.

A sense of calm emanates from his companion. He figures it is her Force, and he would bet twenty credits that she is using it to ease the tension around them. But he is reveling in his frustration towards the Jawas so much that he refuses to let her serenity have an effect on him.

“Okay then, P-1,” she says after receiving permission to talk to her droid. “What happened? Where’s R6?”

Din blinks at the last question. It had not occurred to him to even speculate where the loud bucket of bolts was. P-1 being a prisoner of the Jawas seems more of a possibility than that feisty astrodroid.

“R6 and I were working on the _Razor Crest_ ,” P-1 answers in its helium voice. “Oh, by the way, Master Mando, we fixed the communications system. It was harder than I calculated, considering how old of a model it is. But we—”

“Stay on track, P-1,” Talia interrupts with a gentleness that reminds the Mandalorian of a teacher.

The pit droid vigorously nods its domed head at her so hard he half expects its skinny neck to break. “Yes, of course. Right, Mistress. We finished with the _Crest_ ,” it explains, “when, all of a sudden, we were surrounded by Jawas. They were going to claim us, but we said we belong to you. And do you know what they did?”

 _I don’t have a clue,_ Din sarcastically thinks.

“They ignored us!” P-1 exclaims, aiming a metal finger at its captors. “And they were about to start stripping the _Crest_!”

“What?!” he barks, quickly turning his head so he can glare at the Jawas. “They didn’t dare!”

Anger and disbelief at their nerve fan the flames to his already simmering aggravation. Instinctively, he reaches for his pistol despite the fact that he is not sure what he is planning to do once he has it in his grasp. The Jawas start screaming at him; some jump to their feet in fear. Time suddenly drags that it is almost eerie. The rodents’ high-pitched chattering stretches into long syllables. The tips of the Mandalorian’s gloved fingers are about to brush up against his pistol, but his goal is denied to him when Talia lays a cool hand on his. Her hold is firm as she pushes his hand down, and he feels his entire body stiffen at her intervention. When he tries to yank free from her, her grip on him feels stronger.

Snapping his head in her direction, he now glares at her. “Let go,” he orders, his tone deathly quiet.

Much to his annoyance, she ignores him and says something in Jawaese—she is probably trying to pacify the rodents. _Then_ , she glances at him. His gaze fuses with hers. The reprimand in her dark eyes should rub him the wrong way, should prompt him to wrench his hand from hers. Instead, it shames him. He is not helping matters, and they both know it. A sliver of stubbornness whispers for him to disregard Talia, yet the gentle squeeze she gives him silences it. The unusual coolness from her fingers penetrates his glove, tempting him ever so slightly to intertwine their hands so her touch can relieve him from the desert’s warmth. But he does not give in to this.

Though he is far from pleased hearing that his ship may be once again a metal skeleton, he forces himself to stop fighting her. He releases another irritated huff and relaxes his arm. She must sense his temporary submission, for her gaze flickers with understanding.

A second later, she releases him. He sets his forearms on his crossed legs and allows his hands to hang over them. Meanwhile, Talia places hers in her lap.

“Continue, P-1,” she says with a nod.

“Well, they were about to strip the _Crest_ ,” the droid divulges, “when R6 started zapping them with his arm. He knocked out five Jawas until they used an ion blaster on him. And well, he’s been out of commission since.”

The tale surprises Din. He never would have guessed that the astromech droid would be willing to defend his ship. Since he had the misfortune of meeting R6, they have hardly been on the same page. Their joint mission to the Antar Mansion about a month ago is the most that they have gotten along. So, hearing R6’s stand against the Jawas stuns him. He guesses he owes the metal nuisance a ‘thank you’—and an apology for being harsh to it. But if he is being honest with himself, both ideas make him scowl.

 _Nah,_ he inwardly decides. _R6 was probably defending the_ Crest _for Talia’s sake, not mine._

As P-1 continues, the bounty hunter notices that two of the four Jawas stationed at the front of their group are paying close attention to them, more so than the rest. He suspects they may understand Galactic Basic, which is an uncommon achievement amongst their people.

“They put a restraining bolt on R6,” the pit droid shares. “And they were about to put one on me.”

Din’s gaze travels to the top of P-1’s domed head: a small, circular restraining bolt is fused beside its antenna. Obviously, the Jawas got what they wanted by putting it there; however, he is curious if the droid is even aware that it has one.

“One Jawa was going to shoot me, too,” P-1 says. “But I told them I’d come willingly if they accepted my trade and left the _Crest_ alone. You know how they like deals. So, I convinced them I’d trade me and R6 for something more valuable than Master Mando’s ship—no offense, sir.”

“What trade?” the bounty hunter asks at the same time as Talia. While his question is a demand, his companion sounds hesitant rather than inquisitive, as if she suspects she will regret asking. In front of them, the Jawas begin to murmur.

“If they left the _Crest_ alone and took me and R6 as collateral,” P-1 relays, “I would escort them to my mistress. I told them she would exchange us for a big compound full of things for them to strip and keep.” 

“You offered them this place?!” the Mandalorian fumes. Behind him, he can hear the baby make a noise that sounds like a question. “Why would you do that?” he practically growls while the baby gurgles out something.

“You and Mistress Talia have been here, alone. And for hours without contact,” the pit droid answers matter-of-factually. “I calculated that whatever business you needed to do would be completed by now.”

The baby giggles from where he is on the cart, but the sound only adds more annoyance to the situation.

“You had no way of knowing that,” he reprimands the skinny droid.

“It was good estimation,” Talia swiftly praises her ship’s assistant, and Din wants to shake his head at her. “P-1, you did well under these circumstances.”

“Oh good!” it squeaks happily. “I’m so glad!”

“We’ll take care of this from here,” she continues. “But I think it’ll be best if you power down while I talk with the Jawas, all right?”

Her words coax a smirk onto the bounty hunter’s lips. Though the droid “did well under these circumstances,” it is clear to him that Talia would prefer it if P-1 stayed out of the dealings with the thieves from now on. Knowing the droid, it will keep on interrupting them while she tries to negotiate its release, including R6’s.

“But Mistress, you’ll need my help,” P-1 pleads, its helium voice taking on a higher pitch than normal.

“You’ve done well, my little friend,” she repeats in an even tone, and the Mandalorian knows she will not comply with her droid’s request. “When you wake up again, I hope to have everything settled, all right?”

P-1 nods at her, its domed head looking heavier on its skinny neck as it wobbles up and down. “Okay,” it relents. Sadness distorts its mechanical voice box.

For a moment, the bounty hunter feels sorry for the droid. But he says nothing as Talia gently taps P-1’s nose—or eye, whatever—with two fingers. Immediately, the pit droid folds itself into a compact, box-shaped package, and its metal body lands on the desert floor with a clank. The Jawas whisper amongst themselves while once again the baby giggles at the display as if it is some kind of toy’s trick.

Talia then focuses her attention onto the midget-intruders, allowing Din to glance behind him at child. He is still sitting on the repulsorlift cart; his green skin is a stark contrast to the gray tarp covering their findings. Big brown eyes meet his guardian’s, and Vandar waddles to the edge of the cart. He is about to crawl over it until the Mandalorian shakes his head in disapproval. For once, his instruction is obeyed. Though the little one frowns at him, he plops on the cart, his pointy ears flapping down.

Returning to the chatter in front of him, Din watches his companion shake her head as the Jawas quickly communicate with her. She does not interrupt them yet continues to listen despite disagreeing with whatever they are saying. Soon, she lifts a hand to them, probably asking for a moment to pause. When they send her a nod, she turns to him.

“He,” she begins, gesturing to the Jawa positioned in the middle of the front row, “claims that my droids were down-payments for the compound. And that the only reason why they didn’t strip the _Crest_ was because P-1 said it belonged to a Mandalorian man.”

 _Those pilfering rodents,_ he thinks while sending them another glare. He cannot believe they were on the verge of scavenging his ship for a second time.

About half of the Jawas start yapping at Talia in their squeaky language. They wave their arms and point accusatory, hairy fingers all over the place, from the folded-up droid to them and to the compound. Din sees that Talia can barely get in a word amongst the babble, and he is itching to silence them with his blaster.

For a moment, he misses Kuiil. Although he knows Talia has a reputation of being a negotiator and peacekeeper, he remembers how the Ugnaught helped him get out of the last trouble he had with the Jawas. Kuiil was direct and factual—traits that Din appreciates.

 _“These Jawas are more hostile than the ones from Tatooine,”_ he hears Talia remark in Mando’a.

 _“Tell me about it,”_ he mutters back.

When Talia responds in Jawaese, she straightens her back before stretching out an arm. Curious, he witnesses her curl her hand as if she is holding a staff. Authority paints her tone as she speaks their language while making a downward motion with her arm. It reminds him of a staff hitting its end on the ground. The Jawas gossip to each other, their hooded heads swiveling left and right at whatever she told them.

Not wanting to be left out of the loop, the Mandalorian asks her, “What was that for? What’d you say to them?”

“I requested an audience with their Sandcrawler’s Chief,” she replies. “He’s the leader of this Clan.”

“They have a Chief?” he questions, baffled that these thieves actually have leadership. He figured the chaotic majority dictated the decisions of their people.

“All Sandcrawlers have one onboard,” Talia reveals.

He now knows why the Jawas are consulting with one another anxiously: they must be just as surprised as he is that she is privy to their culture. The four midgets sitting at the front stand up. Next, they turn around, shush their relatives, and wave their arms for silence. After their instructions are followed, they convene together for one more discussion. Din feels a trickle of sweat running down his back as he waits for them to reach a conclusion.

Finally, the four Jawas face him and Talia. Three kneel on the ground again while one steps forward. He notes that this Jawa had been intently watching them whenever they spoke Basic. He assumes he—or she—is either the Chief or the Chief’s spokesperson.

The Jawa prattles away, and Talia responds by bowing to him in respect, confirming to Din that he is indeed the Chief. She then glances at the Mandalorian with a half-smile.

“This is _Wex M’izak_ *. He’s their Clan-Chief,” she informs him. When he says nothing, she adds, “Out of respect . . .”

 _(_ * _pronounced: whex mee-zack)_

Though her voice trails off, the meaning behind the knowing look that she sends his way does not escape him. So, he stiffly bows to the Jawa.

“He doesn’t look important,” he dryly comments.

In two seconds, he assesses the leader. There is nothing special about Wex M’izak, for he is dressed like the rest of his kin. He has the same height of three feet, wears the usual bandolier and pouches across his small chest, and has an ion blaster strapped to his back. There are no ornaments like chains or pins to identify this Jawa as a Chief or as someone holding a high position.

“He’s dresses like an ordinary Jawa when he leaves the Sandcrawler,” Talia relays to him. “It’s for safety reasons.”

The rest of the thirteen rodents are quiet as Wex speaks with Talia. Din feels his frustration grow an inch more as he tries to figure out what they are saying. Certain words catch his attention such as _honor_ and _scavenge_ ; he even picks up on _waff’mla_ which means “desert.” However, it all blends together to him after a while, and his brain is beginning to hurt.

“What’s he saying?” he interrupts.

“He told me he was planning to announce that my droids are theirs now.”

The implication behind the scheme interests him, so he presses, “Planning? What changed his mind?”

Talia nods at the ground, saying, “Seeing my lightsaber.” The dull gold and silver weapon gleams in the sun.

“So, he knows who you are,” he remarks.

Wex declares in a high-pitched voice, _“Ja’bo’ba!”_ In an instant, the rest of his stinking relatives echo him, chanting the word over and over again.

“What’s a Ja’bo’ba?” the Mandalorian asks.

“That’s me,” she replies. “It means ‘Jedi.’”

The shrill repetition of the word is filled with awe and mystery. Wex waves at his people, and they grow silent. He then speaks to Talia in Jawaese.

“He says,” she translates for him while talking over Wex, “that he’s willing to give me P-1 as a peace offering. He knows what Jedi can do because he’s heard the stories about us.” She pauses, listening for a moment before continuing. “He hopes that gifting me with P-1 will calm any tension between us and allow them to claim the compound as theirs without any violence.”

Din scoffs at the audacity of the Chief: gifting a droid that rightfully belongs to Talia _back_ to her?! That is really pushing the lines between scavenging and stealing. Taking P-1 is an insult, and if that happened to him, he would not be so calm and respectful as his companion.

He hears Talia say, _“Mombay m’bwa,”_ which he knows to mean “That is mine” in Jawaese. She then gestures to her powered-down droid, and he identifies the number six, _“Lyo,”_ in her next sentence. He deduces that she is referring to her astrodroid—wherever it is right now. R6 is probably stashed away in the Jawas’ Sandcrawler, which he expects to be just south of the compound.

“Why do they want this place anyways?” he interrupts. It strikes him as odd that the Jawas seek to claim the compound itself rather than just the stuff here.

 _“I’m trying to figure that out,”_ Talia answers quietly in Mando’a. _“We must be careful what we say. Wex understands Basic.”_

A few more minutes of gibberish, and the bounty hunter is feeling restless and bored. His legs have grown numb, so he repositions them. They tingle like tiny pin-pricks at the movement, and he swallows a groan. While wiggling his toes inside his boots, he checks on the baby and finds him falling asleep on the cart. Since the sun is drifting towards the west, Vandar is hiding in the shadow of their covered-up items. Dusk will be approaching in less than three hours from now.

“Okay,” Talia announces with a tired sigh. “From what I gathered, the Jawas want the compound as a fortress city for them and their Clan.”

“Jawas have cities?” he asks. He thought they all lived in their Sandcrawlers.

She nods at him. “The ones who live in their Sandcrawlers make the living while the rest of them stay safe in their fortresses. To raise their young and so on.”

Not being able to help himself, he glances around at the compound and its five, exposed buildings. “This place doesn’t have walls,” he bluntly points out.

“I know. But they want to use it as a starting point for their city,” she replies. “They’re planning to do major changes to make it a fortress for them and their descendants.”

“That’ll take years.”

“It’s an investment. Which is why they’re determined to take it now that the Niktos are gone,” she adds. Then, Talia switches back to Mando’a. _“If they want a city, that must mean this Clan has a Shaman nearby.”_

The news makes his brows lift. _“They have those, too?”_ he wonders because, yes, all he needs is a superstitious medicine man rolling dice or interpreting bones.

Instead of answering him, Talia speaks to Wex in Jawaese. Whatever she says stirs up the rodents—and not in a good way. In the blink of an eye, they jump to their feet and start yelling at her. Some even retrieve their ion blasters; they point them at her, their barrels shaking.

“Hey!” Din barks at them as he raises his hands to stave off an attack. “Easy there! What’d you say, Dewan? They better not shoot me.”

“I asked if they have a Shaman on their Sandcrawler,” she reveals, also lifting up her hands in surrender. “And as you can see, they’re very protective of her.”

“You’re telling me,” he says while Wex tries to calm down his people. “Wait a minute. Her? How do you know their Shaman’s a she?”

“They’re always female.”

Quickly, Talia tries to placate the scavengers; her Jawaese is more solemn than shrill-sounding this time. She then translates in Mando’a, _“I told them I mean her no harm. They’re so jumpy. I’m just trying to understand why they’re prone to handling their weapons than their Tatooine relatives.”_

After at least four minutes of the Jawas bickering amongst themselves, Wex and three of his friends manage to pacify the rest of their troop. They kneel back on the ground, which allows the Clan-Chief to address Talia. She bows her head to him, replies in Jawaese, and lays an arm across her chest in some kind of a respectful salute. Din has a strong feeling that she promised not to hurt the Shaman—if her guess about there being one on the Sandcrawler is correct.

“Ah, I see.”

“What?” he asks.

“Wex told me about how you tried to climb up their Sandcrawler a few months ago.”

“I was trying to get my ship’s parts back!” he defends. He had been so angry and desperate that he did not take the time to consider what he was actually doing. The _Crest_ was his priority, and he was willing to storm a rolling fortress despite the odds being stacked against him.

“I know,” she says with more sympathy in her accent than he has heard directed at him all day. In Mando’a, she adds, _“But I found it odd at how violent they were. It’s because their Shaman was on their Sandcrawler. They were determined to keep her safe from any kind of threat. Including you.”_

 _“But I didn’t know they even had a Shaman,”_ he argues under his breath. _“Let alone her being onboard. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have cared. I just wanted the_ Crest _’s stuff back.”_

She gives him a half-smile, and is that amusement twinkling in her eyes? _“I know, Djarin. But you need to understand that they were just protecting her. A Shaman in a Sandcrawler is almost unheard of. They’re usually kept safe in a Jawa city, behind their walls. She’s too important to be exposed.”_

 _“Even in the middle of an armored vehicle?”_ he grumbles, stubbornly crossing his arms in front of him. Talia’s half-smile grows a centimeter.

Over the next several minutes, she is engrossed in a discussion with the Arvalan Jawas. The Mandalorian has given up trying to understand them. It has been a very long day, and he is tired of cooking in the desert surrounded by the musky smell of Jawa and the rotting odor of dead Niktos.

“What’s going on?” he inquires, annoyed that he has to keep on asking that.

“I told them P-1 isn’t worth trading an entire compound for,” she replies. “Especially since I know what they want to do with it. R6 is much more valuable. So, I’ve tried to trade them both for the compound.”

“But?”

“But they won’t agree.” Her smooth forehead wrinkles at the confession, and he is wondering if she is finally getting frustrated at these troublesome Jawas.

“Why not?” he asks. “Pit droids are as common as Dejarik boards.”

“He hasn’t said,” she answers, eyeing Wex. He whispers a Mandalorian curse, and that must have been enough of a push for Talia because she says in their shared language, _“I’m tired of arguing with them. I’d forgotten how stubborn they can be. I’m going to try a different tactic—though I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”_

_“Come to what?”_

Talia does not answer him. He watches her press her dark pink lips together; her expression is calm yet serious as she stares at the group murmuring in front of them. Still silent, she lifts up a hand. In less than a second, three Jawas to float in the air. Shouts of _“Utinni_ * _!”_ tear across the compound, and the hooded troop all point at the three who are shrieking at being suspended above everyone.

 _(_ * _translation: “Wow!”)_

 _“Stars, Tal! What are you doing?!”_ he hisses in Mando’a. He is impressed that she has not closed her eyes in order to do this Force trick.

Again, she refrains from answering him. Her eyes squint, focusing on the task at hand. Around them, the Jawas have leapt to their feet and are talking faster than he has heard them. More than half of them are trying to coax their comrades down from the air while a small handful are shouting at Talia, probably begging her to put them down.

Slowly, she lowers her leather-covered hand. The bodies of the floating Jawas mimic her movements and begin to descend. In a rustle of musk-smelling fabric, they plant their feet on the ground, which causes their relatives to quiet down. The Jawas huddle together, whispering with one another; they send wide, ruby-eyed glances at Talia. They seem afraid of her, and the Mandalorian would be too if he were them. Yet he is not sure how her trick will turn their negotiations in her favor.

“Wex,” she calls out to the Clan-Chief.

 _“Ibana_ * _?”_ he replies, breaking away from his associates.

 _(_ * _translation: “Yes?”)_

“This is for your ears only. And my friend’s here, too,” she adds, gesturing to the bounty hunter. “You know who I am, and you now have just seen first-hand what I can do.” The Jawa nods his hooded head. “As a sign of good faith, I’ve laid down my weapons,” she continues, her elegant accent diplomatic. “I even convinced my friend to do the same.

“I’ve been generous in such trying times. Will you not extend me the same courtesy? I’ve offered you this compound in exchange for my droids. I implore you to accept this great bargain. But,” she says firmly, “do not wear my patience.”

Din wants to chuckle, at her, the Jawas, their situation. The small threat in her tone amplifies the power she just displayed. Wex would have to be a fool to continue to swindle her. And he hopes the Jawa comes to this decision soon because he is past feeling hot from baking under the evening sun and frying from the warm ground. His legs are still numb from sitting cross-legged for so long, and Talia is undoubtedly just as uncomfortable as he is. It is a good thing the baby is sleeping on the cart and not stirring up problems with the Jawas.

After Talia’s speech, Wex answers her in Jawaese. Talking over him, she translates for the bounty hunter: “He says his people see how valuable both of my droids are to me. My pushing for a bargain makes him believe that he and his people can profit better if they keep raising the stakes.”

 _“Yukusu kenza keena*,”_ Wex finishes, gesturing excitedly.

_(*translation: “Let’s make a deal.”)_

Since that is a phrase Din understands, he snaps at him, “Another one? Your deals haven’t been very good.”

Talia releases a sigh before, saying, “I’m listening.”

With hand motions and fast-pace jabbering, the Clan-Chief explains his so-called deal in Jawaese. Talia nods over the course of a few minutes, but she suddenly goes still. The Mandalorian senses how stiff she has become and cannot stop himself from feeling alarmed.

Before he can ask what is being discussed, Talia interprets, “Wex says he knows the compound isn’t truly ours to give, even though we arrived to strip it first. According to him, I can’t offer it because it doesn’t belong to me.”

“But it doesn’t belong to them either,” he points out.

“He argues they have more of a claim to it than we do because they live here and we’re just passing through.”

As he eyes Wex, he refuses to let this reasoning make sense. “Oh, really? Is that right?” he mocks. His muscles tense up, and he readjusts his legs so he can sit up straighter. Unknowingly, his hands curl into fists. He wants to surge forward and shake the Jawa by the cloak. “Why you little—”

“Hold on,” Talia interrupts. She has probably figured out that he had a long string of Mandalorian curse words for Wex on the tip of his tongue. “He said that since I don’t have anything to offer him, he’ll gift me my droids _if_ we do something for them.”

The proposition should appease him. He should encourage Talia to accept such a simple bargain, but he remembers the last favor these ungrateful Jawas had requested of him.

_Please. Not another egg._

Hating himself for feeling curious, he suspiciously asks, “Do what?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, and he is not sure whether to feel relieved or even more anxious. “Wex hasn’t gotten that far yet.” She nods at the Jawa. “Go ahead. _If_ what you want is reasonable, I might do it. But I have to hear it first.”

Wex gives her a solemn nod before delving into his proposal. His explanation is lengthier than the Mandalorian likes. He tries to rack his brain to understand what the Clan-Chief is saying because he is tired of finding out what is going on second-hand. He is able to catch certain words like _bopom kova_ ¹, _dikwass_ ², and _kiizci_ ³. However, Wex utters one word that he hoped to never hear again: _suka_ ⁴.

 _(translation:_ ¹ _“mountain”;_ ² _“cliff”;_ ³ _“cave”;_ ⁴ _“egg”)_

“NO!” he barks, shooting to his feet. He ignores the tingling in his legs and the murmuring Jawas. “No! I am _not_ going to get you thieves another egg just to watch you eat it.” He would rather buy new droids for Talia than wrestle with a second Mudhorn.

“Calm down, Djarin,” she says in too much of a patient tone if somebody asks him. Still sitting on the ground, she glances his way, revealing, “They don’t want us to bring them an egg.”

“Are you sure?” he demands as he scowls at fourteen pairs of red eyes.

“Completely.” Talia faces forward, but her back still looks stiff.

“Good,” he declares, his gaze drifting to where his pistol is lying on the dirt. Perhaps he can get it back soon.

“They just want us to make one,” she tells him so off-handedly that he cannot believe his ears.

“What?!” he snaps. “How in the name of Concordia do they expect us to _make_ an egg?” He ignores the insinuation behind his question and throws at the Jawas, “The sun must’ve fried your brains!”

At this, Talia gracefully rises to her feet. “Don’t be irrational.”

“I’m never irrational,” he defends, turning to her.

He expects her to argue with him or to scoff, but she pulls him away from the Jawas and past her cart. He does not resist; if anything, he marches behind her, determined to talk her out of this. At the back of his mind, he notes that Vandar is sleeping soundly despite the commotion from earlier.

With his back to the scavengers, he hisses, “You can’t be serious about—”

“Just listen,” she interrupts. “They have three, female Mudhorns in heat. They’ve kept them safe in a valley south of here. All they need is a male.”

“And what do they want us to do? Make a mating call and find one?” he mocks as he crosses his arms in front of him.

“Thank the Force, no,” she breathes out in relief. “They already have a male. But he’s five miles away from the valley. The male’s young and very hostile. He’s being corralled at the moment, in a canyon with rocks acting as its cage.”

The hunter side of him pictures the short description she gave him. “They trapped it?” he bluntly asks.

Talia shrugs her shoulders. “That was the only way for them to keep it there.”

“What are they going to do with them anyways?” he queries. “Start a Mudhorn farm?”

“Yes. This compound,” she adds, gesturing to the buildings, “will be the grounds for their city. Further up this valley, they want to raise Mudhorns. They have plans to breed and tame them, for food and other things.”

The future plans of these Jawas are the least of his concern—and Talia’s, too. They have more important things to do than to help the thieves settle down. He rolls his eyes at the situation his companion is getting coerced into, and he turns away from her so he can start pacing.

“They should’ve thought better than to trap their male five miles away from the females,” he all but complains. When he walks back to Talia, he can feel his cloak flutter behind him. “I’ll take it they want us to relocate the male,” he assumes.

“Well,” she begins, clearing her throat. “They want him tamed so he can be led to the females willingly.”

Stopping in front of her, his eyes widen at the proposal. “Tame it?” he nearly chokes out. “I’ve told you what I had to do to get an egg from an over-protective female,” he reminds her through a clenched jaw. “I don’t want to imagine how a hostile male who’s been caged will act.”

“I know, but—”

“This is ridiculous,” he interrupts. “I’d rather storm the Sandcrawler and rip the droids from them rather than do this.”

“Djarin,” she whispers before moving closer to him, an action that traps them both in a small bubble of privacy. He calculates that they are less than a foot away from one another. “They’re not asking for you to help them,” she reveals. “They’re asking _me_.”

“What? No, Talia,” he orders in a low voice. “Those Jawas are shifty. They’ll probably _own you_ if you’re not firm with them. We’re sticking together on this.”

“But this is my problem,” she insists, her face now mere inches from his visor. “It’s _my_ droids at stake. Besides, I already accepted the trade. And I told Wex,” she quickly adds while pulling away, “that you and Vandar can return to your ship, or mine, while I take care of this. I’ll be back in twenty-four hours—tops.”

He has been shaking his head since the beginning of her speech, and it only gets rougher by the end. “You want me to go back to the ship and do what? Pace while you’re being gored to death?” He is tempted to scoff at her suggestion that he should be left behind. “I don’t think so,” he declares. Since when has he freely sat on the sidelines while she walks into trouble?

“But you’ve already had a bad experience with a Mudhorn before,” she argues. “It’ll be unfair to drag you along.”

Ignoring the sentiment behind her tone, he gruffly states, “I’ve already been dragged into this. I’m staying, and that’s final.”

Being partnered up with Talia for as long as he has is starting to make him feel that what happens to her, in a way, happens to him—and vice versa if he really thinks about it. If he is in danger, it somehow manages to slither its way to her, too. From Dxun to Galidraan, he has fought with her for the baby, has tried to keep them both from harm. He has not allowed himself to become entangled with anyone like this since his buir died. His instinct rebels at the notion, but for some reason, his stomach is not bothered by it. Perhaps he is not the rogue Kath hound that he has thought himself to be all these years.

Talia’s dark eyes soften, and she is gazing at him like she used to: with respect, fondness, and even admiration. He will never admit that he prefers this kind of look from her. And why does his neck and upper back feel warmer? The sun is not behind him.

“So,” he breaks the silence between them and takes a step back. “What are we going to do?”

At this, Talia lowers her eyes to the Mandalorian Iron Heart forged in the middle of his breast-plate. “It’s not we,” she quietly says. “It’s me.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she beats him to it. “If you’re coming, you’re just going to observe. That’s it.”

There is a sense of finality in her tone that he hardly hears from her. Between the two of them, he is the one who has the tendency to lay down the law. She may be a beast master and tamer on Onderon, but she has not dealt with an Arvalan Mudhorn before. That is why he cannot stop himself from insisting that she will need help.

“And I’ll have it,” she tells him with a confidence that he has not seen today. “The Force will be my help. Wex believes I can use it to tame the Mudhorn and lead him to the females.”

Hearing this perplexes him. “How does he know you can do this?” he questions. Is everyone except him—and most people from Nevarro—ignorant of who the Jedi are and what they can do?

“He knows from their Shaman,” she answers. “She’s old, and she remembers the days of the Republic and the Jedi Order. She’s Force-sensitive herself.”

“She is?”

Talia gives him a half-hearted nod. “Most Shamans are. Wex tells me that she predicted someone special like her will come and help them build their legacy here on the planet.”

“And that person’s you?” he slowly asks, not believing his life involves the Force and visions and Fate.

“It seems so,” she replies, shrugging her shoulders.

 _This is crazy,_ he thinks to himself.

Not wanting to be a spectator while Talia deals with the Mudhorn alone, his brain searches for a way to participate. After a moment, he suggests, “How about I get rid of the rocks trapping the Mudhorn so you don’t have to worry about it?”

The shake of her head dashes his hopes. He notices that her braid dangles behind her from the movement. “I can’t have you blowing up the boulders. The noise will disrupt any rapport I may have with the male,” she explains. “I’ll just use the Force to remove the barrier when the time comes.”

 _Looks like she doesn’t need your help,_ a cynical voice whispers to him. It reminds him of his old partner, Ran.

“Fine,” he tersely replies.

The smile Talia gives him is faint yet warm; however, it does nothing to chase away the peculiarity of the situation. He takes comfort in knowing that, though he left his sniper rifle back at the _Crest_ , he still has his jet-pack with him. If things do not work in her favor, he may have to swoop in and salvage her deal with the Jawas and their high expectations.

He gives Talia a curt nod, and she leads the way back to the waiting scavengers. As he saunters behind her, he braces himself for another bumpy ride in a stinking, cramped Sandcrawler.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Sunset . . ._

The Sandcrawler is just as he remembered it: smelly, bumpy, noisy. And he also remembers wishing to never step foot in one again. Yet here he is, squeezing through rusty hallways, trying not to trip over Jawas at every dark corner. If he was not so used to wearing a helmet, he would have felt claustrophobic staying in a vehicle habituated by small rodents.

For almost three hours he and his companions have been traveling with the swindling Jawas as they head south. They should reach the valley lodging their male Mudhorn before dawn. Along the way, he heard something about his hosts needing to prepare some kind of ceremony—a blessing, he thinks—that will see Talia off. So, he would not be surprised if her journey to the beast is delayed at least an hour.

As he slides past an uncharacteristically fat Jawa in the hall, he finds himself wondering why the scavengers did not give _him_ a blessing before he left to retrieve a Mudhorn egg. Stars know he could have used all the help he could get with that task. But maybe taming one of these animals is harder to accomplish than stealing a furry suka.

The stout Jawa reeks of spoiled meat, and the Mandalorian holds his breath. He figures he—or she—must work in the galley. The Jawa’s cloak, he notes, is stained with large yellow spots that smell of gourds and stewed vegetables.

Once free from the galley hand, Din strides deeper into the Crawler. He had left his sleeping baby in the control room with Wex M’izak so he can look for Talia. She was summoned by the Shaman for a private meeting only minutes after they hit the road. The Jawas ushered him and Vandar to the control room while a small handful led her out of sight. If he had it his way, he would have traded going with her rather than being trapped in the cramped room. Like his last visit, he could not sit up straight, his helmet kept bumping into the ceiling, and his nostrils were filled with that awful, humid musky smell. He was tempted to move to the Crawler’s primary hold with Talia’s droids if it meant he could breathe in dry air again.

He turns another corner and sees a line of Jawas walking towards him. Not wanting to be squished against the hallway for the third time today, he looks around for a spot to lodge himself in so they can walk by without any trouble. He spies a ladder on his left and quickly ascends it. The metal foot-bars creak and groan under his weight, but they hold him as the Jawas scurry past him, chatting in their high-pitched language.

“Hey, you,” he calls out to the last rodent in line, hoping his raspy voice is loud enough to be heard over the Crawler’s engines. When the hooded figure stops, he demands, “Where’s the Ja’bo’ba?”

_“Ja’bo’ba?”_

_“Ibana_ ¹ _,”_ he says slowly. _“Ja’bo’ba: ookwass_ ² _?”_

 _(translation:_ ¹ _“Yes”;_ ² _“Jedi: where?”)_

The Jawa prattles away and then points to the ceiling. _“Okka_ * _!”_ he—or she, Din cannot tell the difference—squeaks out. _“Ja’bo’ba: okka!”_

 _(_ * _translation: “Up”)_

Before he can question the rodent further, the Jawa races past him in order to reunite with the group.

The answer puzzles him for a moment as he jumps down from the ladder. He is on the same floor as the control room, which—he believes—is the highest level in the Sandcrawler. What can possibly be above them? Another secret floor?

“The roof,” he mutters to himself.

Remembering that he walked by a wobbly-looking stairwell on his way to the control room, the bounty hunter strides in that direction. He side-steps junk piles stationed near doors and calculates that the stairs are up ahead. The air, he realizes, tastes fresher even if it smells of dust. His feet move faster at the prospect of being outside.

Earlier, while he waited for Talia in the control room, Wex managed to tell him that their Shaman was inspecting some new equipment their people had salvaged in the west. Hearing that the female mystic was doing this with her students made the Mandalorian’s ears perk up. He then asked about Talia’s whereabouts. The Clan-Chief told him that her conference with their Shaman had been over for a while now. It was odd that Wex did not seem concerned that Talia failed to make an appearance in the control room.

 _Why would she be on the roof?_ he wonders to himself as he reaches the small stairs leading to the top of the Crawler.

From his previous run-in with the Jawas, the roof was nothing interesting, just a canopy, harpoons, and a rusty metal flooring. But then, he had not able to study his surroundings for long at that time because a group of Jawas shot him with multiple ion blasters. The electrical shock had been so great that he blacked out almost immediately. He only remembers the sensation of falling as a sea of darkness swallowed him whole.

He climbs up the stairs and reaches a hatch. With the flick of his wrist, he flips a lever on the side. Rusty orange metal scrapes against metal as the hatch slides away, granting him access. Immediately, his lungs breathe in fresh air. Even though it is still warm from the sun, he is thankful it is dry.

As he ascends onto the roof, he glances around him, searching for his companion. There are a couple of Jawas stationed at the Crawler’s rear, acting as lookouts for the Clan. At the front of the huge vehicle, facing south, is Talia. He heads over to her and sees that she is gripping the railing built there.

Talia’s tunic sways in the wind, and her brown trousers are streaked with dust. He notices that her crisp white shawl is wrapped around her neck like a scarf, its ends flapping behind her.

When she does not react to his approach, he calls out, “Hey, um, you’re not meditating, are you?” His eyes take in her thick braid: it is hanging over her right shoulder, its dark hue a stark contrast to her taupe-colored tunic.

Her gaze is focused on the horizon as she answers, “No. Not now.” She sends him a quick glance, asking, “Do you need me?”

“No,” he replies with a careless shrug. “I was just wondering where you were. That’s all.”

Once he reaches the roof’s railing, he makes sure there is at least three feet between them. Her being up here tells him that she wants her space, just like she has most of today after they reached the Nikto compound. Though he respects this, he does not want them to be on separate pages when she leaves in the morning. For the kid’s sake, he will try to smooth things over between them.

The Crawler’s engines loudly purr as the vehicle’s massive treads roll across the uneven terrain. To steady himself better, he grips the railing, and he curious as to why Talia is not using the Force to help her keep her balance. He is certain she has done that before in other occasions. Why not now?

He allows the silence between them to linger—it gives him an opportunity to survey his surroundings. The Arvalan sunset is breathtaking this early evening. Along the horizon, the sky is a daffodil yellow. Its soft color transitions into peach, followed by magenta and then indigo. Gravelly mountains, deep canyons, and rocky valleys are in the distance, beckoning their large caravan closer to their robust Mudhorn occupants.

The warm air, from the planet and the engines, is starting to make him sweat again. He turns his head to look at his companion. There is a heated glow in her cheeks. Her tanned skin glistens, and some flyaway hairs are clinging to her neck.

“Why are you up here?” he asks. “It’s cooler inside.”

Talia does not answer him. At first, he thinks it is her way of telling him to leave her alone; however, her gaze is detached. Did she even hear him? Maybe she really has been meditating. Her brows are furrowed, and he realizes she must have been in deep thought before he came. Tomorrow, she has a big task before her. If beast-taming is one of her specialties, she should not be too worried, right?

“Having second thoughts?” he ventures.

His question causes her to blink several times, breaking the bubble she immersed herself in. She inhales a breath through her nose before saying, “No, it’s just . . .” She runs her teeth over her bottom lip, and he waits. “I can’t get used to the smell,” she confesses, dropping her gaze. “The Jawas’ scent . . .”

“Stinks.”

She releases a small smile. “That and . . . well, much more.” Sucking in another deep breath, she turns to face him; however, her gaze veers off to his shoulder instead of his visor. “The Force heightens my senses,” she explains.

“I know.”

At his quick reply, she frowns. Now, she looks straight at him, her eyes squinting as if she is trying to form the correct words. Her expression tells him that he does not truly understand the full length of her Force’s abilities, and she is right.

“What do you know about the Jawas’ scent?” she asks him.

He shrugs his shoulders, not sure where she is going with this question. “Just that it’s musky,” he answers. “Like a ferret.”

After giving him a thoughtful nod, Talia expands upon the strong odor of their hosts. She shares that the Jawas’ aroma actually contains tremendous amounts of information about them. Because the Force sharpens her smelling senses, she is able to tell him that, at this very moment, two Jawas have eaten a hearty meal of Hubba gourds, one has the unhappy job of managing the Crawler’s sewage, three are sexually aroused and are ready to mate . . .

“Okay,” he interrupts. “I get it.”

She tears her eyes away from him and studies the fading sunset. “Their scents are telling me who they are, what they’re feeling.”

According to her experience and knowledge, a Jawa’s identity, health, maturity, recent meal, mood—the list is nearly endless—can be revealed in their odor. She also explains that their scent is heightened by a secretive liquid mixture that the Jawas dip their cloaks in, to help them preserve moisture for their unusually heated bodies.

“And I can’t seem to get used to the different smells,” she shyly confesses. “I’d rather not be inside the Crawler, if you get my meaning.”

He sends her a curt nod. Since he entered the vehicle, he has been trying to breathe from his mouth, but he has not made this a habit yet. “Think it’s bothering the kid?” he queries. After all, the little womp-rat has the Force, too. Perhaps he should bring him to the roof with his nanny.

“If it was, he’d be fussy. Or crying,” Talia adds.

“Well, you’re not doing any of those things,” he states. It is a poor attempt at humor, and his tone is too stiff to be considered light-hearted. “The smell can’t be that bad,” he says, trying to cheer her up. “Why don’t you use the Force to get used to it?”

Talia is quiet for a few moments, and he tells himself to be patient. If she wanted to end the conversation, she would say so or leave. Her staying here is a sign that she does not mind his company . . . right now.

“It’s,” she begins before stopping. “It’s not just the smell.”

At this, he quirks up an eyebrow. “So, what is it then?” he presses, suspecting this may lead to one of her long stories about her past. But she goes quiet.

To his dismay, she faces the railing again. The simple action may be her way of ending the conversation. Her expression turns neutral, and he is having a hard time reading her. He cannot even identify the look in her eyes—something that alarms him. He then realizes she is in the process of sliding on one of her many masks, and a shot of frustration swims through his bloodstream. She promised to be honest with him for as long as they know each other. Those were her words, and she cannot possibly be regretting them already. It has been less than a week since she said them.

 _She seems to be holding something back. Something personal,_ a voice tells him. It sounds like his Tribe’s Armorer.

Before he can study her further or even consider what his Armorer might say, he blurts out, “You don’t think I’ll understand, do you?” As far as he knows, she sees him as this cold-blooded, money-hungry bounty hunter.

“That’s not why,” she states, shaking her head. “I just don’t like thinking about _what_ the smell reminds me of.”

 _Ah, a bad memory._ His brain quickly skims his own mental archives, trying to recall other planets where she could have encountered Jawas.

In a few seconds, he is struck by an idea. “Tatooine?” he guesses, and she gives him a single nod. However, any sense of victory he may have felt is whisked away by the wind at how tight her fingers wrap around the railing. “Run into a lot of Jawas then?” he asks.

The nod she gives is slow and stiff. When she says nothing for a few moments, he has half a mind to leave her so she can deal with this alone or to pressure her to tell him more. The former will make him seem unsympathetic like most bounty hunters, so he stays where he is, forcing himself to keep on being patient. She will open up—he is sure of it.

And he is right, for Talia delves into one of her long stories. She reminds him that after Kashyyyk and Order 66, she and R6 smuggled themselves onto Tatooine. For weeks they lived in Mos Espa, trying to earn enough credits so they could return home to Onderon.

After they succeeded, they searched for a transport ship but could not find one trustworthy or stealthy enough. They heard that the best pilots were in Mos Eisley, so they joined a caravan to get there. The trip was less than a hundred miles and would take almost a week due to the slow-moving repulsorlift carts and speeders. Unfortunately, they were attacked by Tusken Raiders near the Mospic High Range, just after they passed Mos Taike.

“They were,” she reveals, her accent slightly strained, “they were monsters.”

To hear her say something like this surprises him. He remembers her telling him that, as a Jedi, she viewed all life as precious. Unlike most of their fellow Mandos, she does not take pleasure in battles or fighting. She even pitied the Niktos that he and IG eliminated before she found out the mercenaries might have been protecting the baby instead of holding him prisoner. Would she not feel some form of compassion towards the Sand People? They have had a hard life on Tatooine—he should know.

“They’re not that bad,” he casually defends. “I’ve known Mandos who were just as mean.”

But Talia shakes her head, her lips in a straight line. “No, Tuskens are brutal. Their whole culture is,” she claims, though he would say their way of life was harsh and extremely disciplined. “What they did to the caravan . . .” she begins yet is unable to finish. Her gaze hardens a little as she continues to stare at the blushing horizon.

“I escaped with R6,” she continues. “I was so scared that I couldn’t help our companions. My lightsaber was damaged beyond repair from Kashyyyk, and even if it worked, I knew I couldn’t use it without painting a target on my back. And I couldn’t concentrate enough to use the Force either, so R6 and I ran. But we got turned around in the chaos. We were lost near the Jundland Wastes for almost two days before some Jawas found us.”

“That’s why you know so much about them,” he figures aloud.

“Yes. And they wanted R6 in exchange for rescue,” she replies with a grim smile at the memory.

 _So, this isn’t the first time the tin-can has dealt with them,_ he muses. _No wonder R6 shocked these Jawas. It probably didn’t want to get entangled with them again after Tatooine._

“As you know, astromech droids are very valuable,” Talia reminds him. “And one as advanced as R6 at the time—even more so.”

“Obviously, you didn’t hand R6 over.”

_It’s a shame she didn’t._

“He was my friend,” she replies, dropping her gaze to her hands still gripping the railing. “He was my last link to my master. I needed him. I tried a Jedi mind-trick on them, to get them to help me without giving up R6.”

_A Jedi what?_

“It was a long shot,” she continues before he can ask more about this new Force ability. “And it didn’t work. I was too exhausted and scared. In the end, I made a deal with them: R6 and I would work for them in exchange for food and water, shelter, and safe passage to Mos Eisley.”

“So, you sold yourself,” he confirms. He admires that someone as young as she was had been able to strike a bargain that would ensure her survival. At that point in time, he was simply training with his buir, safe and accepted in Death Watch’s military corps.

“I was more of an indentured servant,” she corrects.

She then further explains that for three weeks she and R6 traveled aboard the Jawas’ Sandcrawler. They fixed broken droids and cleaned their employers’ salvaged parts, preparing them for trade. After a while, she used the Force to move heavy things around for the Jawas. It seemed they were extremely grateful for her help on that matter.

“And because of my gift,” she reveals, “they took me to their Jawa Mountain Fortress, to meet their Shaman.”

“Didn’t know such a place existed,” he dryly comments.

“It’s in Hubba Heights,” she divulges. “A region deep in the Jundland Wastes. I managed to get them to swear secrecy of me being a Jedi Padawan.”

He nods. Though working for swindling rodents is not something he would envy, he doubts Talia was mistreated by them. She had protection and a place to sleep, food and water, her precious bucket of bolts to keep her company—what more could an orphan ask for?

“Was being with them so bad?” he gently wonders.

At this, she glances in his direction. Her eyes are soft as she tries to help him understand the situation better. “I was twelve. I was completely alone, besides R6. I was afraid,” she admits. “And uncertain. It really hit me hard that my master wasn’t going to show up and save me. I had to work to get out of the situation on my own, and that wasn’t something I was used to.” She nods at the Jawas who are standing at the other end of the Crawler and who are acting as lookouts. “Smelling them,” she confides, “reminds me of harder times.”

He knows all too well how any of his senses can trigger memories, both good and bad. When he tastes _ne’tra gal_ *, he thinks of his buir when she allowed him to have his first pint. The smell of cinnamon reminds him of his mother; he would wrap himself in her scarlet shawl whenever he was afraid of the dark. Tracing the scruff along his jawline with his fingers transports him back to the time when his father’s cheek rubbed against his while they tackled one another on the living room floor. The scratchy sensation combined with his father’s arms wrapped around Din boasted of strength and security.

 _(_ * _pronounced: NAY-trah gahl; translation: “black ale”; significance: sweet, almost spicy, Mandalorian black beer)_

But like Talia, his senses can also remind him of the most difficult moments in his life. The heavy footsteps of droids clanking across the ground sends apprehension to his gut. Regret stirs inside his chest whenever he detects the scent of innocent blood.

Thinking he should veer the subject to something less traumatic, he quietly clears his throat. He doubts his companion is able to hear it above the purring engines. “Say,” he begins, “how was your meeting with the Shaman?”

Talia removes her white shawl from her neck and wraps it around her shoulders. “Enlightening. She has the Force,” she shares, looking up into the navy-blue sky. There are a handful of stars shimmering bright enough through the last stages of dusk. “But it’s just enough for her to have short visions, if she concentrates. She’s very old. I even helped her sense which of her students is stronger in the Force, to take her place when the time comes.”

Her tone is lighter than before, and she seems satisfied that she had been able to help their hosts. Besides the musky odor, she looks comfortable here on the Crawler’s roof. He doubts that is because she is talking to him.

“All in a day’s work, huh?” he remarks.

She does not laugh, nor does she smile. Instead, she presses her lips together before answering, “I’ll say that when I’m through with tomorrow.”

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_The next morning . . ._

There is a minor dust storm whistling its way through the slot canyon. It is dry, mostly consisting of sand rather than dirt. But it will be over soon—she can sense the strength behind the wind fading with every second.

Talia is sitting cross-legged on the pebbly ground, a huge pile of rocks almost three times her height situated before her. With eyes closed, she takes in a slow, deep breath. Her white shawl is covering her face, blocking any particles from entering her lungs and disturbing her. Its material is soft and thin.

For the past several minutes she has been meditating. The Force’s energy flows around her like a reassuring melody, soothing her inside and out. She has used it to open her mind and to build a strong foundation for her to concentrate. It is steady like a bass drum, thumping with life. Her master had taught her that control, of one’s body, mind, and emotions, is the starting point in every Jedi’s training. She has regulated her breathing while releasing any apprehension she had felt earlier when she first entered the canyon.

Now in control, she allows the Force to enhance her senses. The wind’s whisperings add to the Force’s beating. It echoes across the terrain with so much freedom that she would be able to recognize if someone or something enters the ravine. She hears breathing from beyond the rock formation; it is labored and guttural. A small sneeze on her left reaches her ears, followed by a quick apology in Jawaese. She gives a half-smile at the reminder that she is not alone.

On her next breath she pays special attention to the various scents assaulting her nose. She is greeted with the musky odor of her Jawa companion, Blot Sem. His cloak has recently been dipped in his people’s mystery liquid mixture, and she detects a hint of castor oil integrated in the smell. She can also deduce that he is nervous about their task; there is a hint of salty sweat coming off of him.

“Calm yourself, my friend,” she gently murmurs. Blot Sem is the only other Jawa besides Wex that understands Basic.

When his aroma penetrates the air in small waves, she knows he is nodding at her. Her smile grows a centimeter.

Inhaling another deep breath, she leans on the Force to expand her sense of smell. It helps her identify the sour odor of animal waste. Most of it has hardened in the Arvalan sun, which has thankfully subsided its fresh scent. In the background there are traces of dried shrubs and layer upon layer of fur covered with caked mud and more fecal matter.

Though her eyes are closed, she can see past the rock barrier. The male Mudhorn is huddled against the canyon’s rough walls, waiting for the sandstorm to end. His energy is wild, and there is a slight red aura surrounding his large frame. She can feel his restlessness, his blood simmering with rage. The Jawas told her he has been trapped in their natural-made blind alley for a few weeks now. In the first four days, he had used either his horn or his body to try to break through the rock pile, but the barricade has been too thick for him to rupture. During his captivity, he was christened _Rubac_ * by the Jawas, due to the thick coat of orangey mud covering his grayish-brown fur.

 _(_ * _pronounced: roo-back; translation: “Rust”)_

As she focuses more on Rubac, she tries to connect with him. Like most untamed beasts, his mind is as chaotic as a passionate brass-band playing at the same time. His desire to be free dictates his emotions, and his emotions dictate his attitude, which is frustrated and fearful. He has snarled and roared at every attempt the Jawas have made to befriend him. In her estimation, Rubac has learned to be suspicious and has identified any kind of humanoid as hostile. Those are two assumptions she will have to modify soon.

With the Mudhorn’s feelings blowing uncontrollably, Talia takes her time in trying to understand him better. She reminds herself that his animalistic passion, if fastened by her patience, can reveal a deeper knowledge about him. So, she hums her mother’s meditative tune while focusing on the Living Force flowing in him.

After a minute or two, she detects something odd about him. His Living Force has a sharp note hidden in it. It is quiet, as if Rubac has grown accustomed to it disturbing his normal brass-band fanfare. Concentrating on that irregularity, she senses that he is . . . in pain. It is not too great, yet it should not be there in the first place. Blot Sem and the others failed to say anything about Rubac being injured. Judging from how the beast has “adapted” to the small pain, she realizes he has been numbing himself from it so he can survive.

 _This won’t be helpful,_ she thinks. Most wild animals are resistant when it comes to bonding—which is only natural. But a young Mudhorn dealing with an injury? Her task may take longer because of it.

To aid her with this new discovery, she reaches out to the beast. The Force floats from her to him in a sweet symphony accompanied with the whistling wind. She maintains a calm aura, one that is friendly and comforting. As her humming continues, she can feel the Force growing stronger within her, and it begins to show her where Rubac’s injury is coming from: his ribs on his right side—they are bruised and cracked. She believes that must have happened when he was slamming himself against the boulders in his unsuccessful attempts to escape his confinement.

Beside her, she can feel Blot Sem stirring. He is the mastermind behind the Jawas’ Mudhorn venture. For the past three years, he has studied the cattle-like beasts, and he had raised the three females that his people already have in their possession. It was only expected that he would join her as she tamed Rubac; he is hoping to learn from her the art of animal bonding. And he has a head start than most of his kin because he has a sliver of the Force in him. Talia sensed it upon first meeting him, and yesterday, she learned his grandmother was a former Shaman.

 _These Arvalan Jawas keep on surprising me,_ she muses to herself.

Before the two of them left the Sandcrawler, they were sent to _Unah Ses_ *, his Clan’s current Shaman. She wished them luck and foretold the day when their Clan would be lords of the Mudhorns. Though Talia was confused as to how Unah Ses can believe in both the Force and luck, she now inwardly chuckles at the prediction. These Jawas have had a trying life here, and she knows their Shaman’s positive glimpse into the future will raise their spirits. Everyone at some point in their lives need something to strive for and to be proud of.

 _(_ * _pronounced: oo-nah sess)_

At last, the minor sandstorm ends, fading out of the valley in a heart-felt elegy. Talia stops humming and opens her eyes. The canyon’s walls are the color of baked yams, but their sides are rough from being carved away by the wind and dirt. Beyond, Rubac snorts, yet she senses that he remains where he is.

When she glances up, the morning sun reaches the ravine’s floor in radiant beams. The light twinkles the glitter-like sand still floating in the warm air, giving her a moment to appreciate this simple beauty.

A flash of silver off to her right catches her attention. Craning her neck that way, she spies Djarin looking down at her from the canyon’s plateau. His armor gleams as he paces back and forth. Even from where she is, she can sense how restless he is. He really does hate being left out of all the action—a thought that coaxes a small smile from her.

Well, she gave him a chance to return to either of their ships, but that stubborn Mando would not hear of it. At least he is watching the baby instead of the Jawas. Vandar is so sweet and adorable that she would not want their hosts to become too attached to him.

 _“Don’t you want the kid to learn how to do this?”_ his guardian asked her before they parted. _“You know, as a training exercise?”_

She had hidden an amused smile from him as she replied, _“He can learn by watching me.”_

The frustrated sigh he released only confirmed to her that this was not the answer he had been looking for. But what else could she say? She needed to get her droids back so they can resume their mission to find the baby’s blood-people. And in order to do so, she could not afford to turn her Mudhorn task into a lesson for her Padawan. There will be other times for her to train Vandar better in animal friendship. However, from his strong connection to the Force, she doubts he will need much advice from her.

Djarin stops his pacing, an action that draws her focus to the present again. She watches him move as close to the edge as he dares. Calling upon the Force to sharpen her vision, she sees that he settles on his stomach and pulls out his scope. She rises to her feet, her eyes still fixated on him.

The Living Force in him is as disciplined as military drums yet contemplative like a lone woodwind instrument. She notes that its steady rhythm is slightly disrupted by soft bells of anxiousness. It is so quiet that she might have missed it if she was not so in-tuned with the Force at the moment.

After assuring him that she knows what she is doing, he is still worried about this situation. She could be offended that he does not think her capable of handling a Mudhorn on her own. In his defense, he is not aware that she has tamed far wilder creatures like Drexls or Maalraas. A Mudhorn—an injured one at that—should be a walk through the Jedi Temple’s Room of a Thousand Fountains.

Yet, in all honesty, she is grateful to sense his unease, for it adds to his character. If he can feel like this about her after she has shied away from him, then he is indeed a man of true honor and compassion. And she needs to stop doubting him despite his bounty hunter ties—though, even she has to admit, that will take time for her to accept.

Instinctively, she presses a button on her metal gauntlet. The comms linking her to Djarin crackle with life. Her gaze is still focused on him as she raises her upper wrist to her mouth.

 _“I’ll be all right,”_ she tells him in Mando’a.

 _“Just as long as you’re sure, Dewan,”_ he replies. There is gruffness in his raspy voice, and she wants to shake her head in amusement. She has learned by now that sometimes, when he uses her surname, he is hiding his concern. This is such an occasion; she can hear it in his tone.

 _“I am ready,”_ she promises, quoting her Clan’s motto.

_“I still don’t like this.”_

For a moment, she thinks of ending their communication because what else can she say that will reassure him? But suddenly, she is struck by inspiration and adds, _“Since when has a Mando’s life not involved risks? This is the way, my friend.”_

The comms amplifies the silence between them. Two seconds pass before he replies, _“This is the way.”_

Satisfied, Talia ends their connection. She then turns to Blot Sem who has been patiently waiting for her this whole time. Underneath his grayish-brown hood, his ruby eyes harden with determination. With a hairy hand, he reaches for a rucksack stuffed with fresh vegetables and slings it onto his back. Talia grabs the satchel she brought with them, but this bag contains food, medical supplies, and other items.

 _“How are we going to get over?”_ he asks her in Jawaese as he points to the boulders blocking their entrance.

“I’m going to lift you to the top,” she answers while putting her satchel across her shoulders. “So, remain calm and don’t move when you land.”

He nods his hooded head and takes a deep breath. Smiling underneath her shawl, she raises her hands in front of her, calling upon the Force. Its power flows through her and embraces Blot Sem. It wraps its invisible strength around his little body before picking him up. His musky cloak flaps in the air as she moves her hands to her right, towards the rocks. Blot’s small frame of three feet mirrors the action, and Talia concentrates so he is lifted higher and higher.

Once she has him hovering over a stable boulder, she slowly lowers her hands. She can hear Blot release a sigh after his feet are on something solid again.

“Stay out of sight,” she advises. Though she senses Rubac is facing away from them, she does not want her companion to draw attention to himself so soon.

After Blot gives her a quick salute, Talia breathes in then out. She takes a moment to center herself, to focus on what she must do now. Then, she jumps up, using the Force to prolong it so she can quietly land beside the Jawa. His bright eyes glow with awe, and his musky scent smells sweet—which will make her next move easier for her to handle.

“Okay, Blot,” she tells him, kneeling in front of him.

When she opens her arms to him, the Jawa shuffles closer to her and gives her a hug. His short arms wrap around her neck as his robes press tightly against her clothes. Talia mentally counts to ten then pats him on the back, signaling for him to release her.

“Well, do I smell like a Jawa?” she asks him, a tease in her voice. She glances down and notices that her white shawl is smeared with dirt.

 _“I could have dipped your clothes in our secret recipe,”_ he reminds her, but she shakes her head. Knowing her skin, it would have clung to the Jawa odor with such resilience that scrubbing herself raw would not remove it.

“I just need enough of your people on me to get Rubac used to the fact that Jawas will be in his life from now on,” she says. Motioning for her little companion to follow her, she maneuvers over the rocks. She needs to find a good spot for him to watch her. “Can you climb up to that?” she asks him as she points to the tallest boulder. A rugged stairway comprised of more rocks will make the ascent bearable.

 _“Just watch me!”_ he replies with enthusiasm.

Talia nods at him then explains that when she gets the Mudhorn’s attention, he should sit atop the boulder. He must watch and follow her instructions. “But remember,” she adds, “concentrate on Rubac. Try to feel what he is feeling.”

 _“I don’t know how I can,”_ Blot admits, scratching his chin in uncertainty. His hand disappears under his hood.

“You’ll know,” she promises before leaving him with her satchel.

As quietly as she can, Talia leaps from rock to rock. The Force carries her as if she weighs as light as musical notes; she can feel her holstered blaster and lightsaber brush against her upper thighs.

With her sights set on a ledge connected to the canyon wall, she purposefully has the loose pebbles under her boots fall into Rubac’s small arena. She does it so he will be aware of another presence. The noise causes the fur along his spine to twitch.

When she lands safely on the ledge, she nods at Blot who then calls out Rubac’s name—this has been a habit of his since the Jawas first trapped the Mudhorn. Blot told her that Rubac has lately growled and roared at him, which is a progression from ramming his long horn into the rock barricade.

Rubac stirs from where he is lodged against the canyon wall. His rusty coated fur is a tangled mess and looks like a bright orange in the sunlight. Quickly, he turns himself around to face Blot, which gives Talia a moment to study his profile.

According to her companion’s observations and experience, Rubac is a young male with a few more growing years ahead of him. His stubby legs look powerful to carry his hefty weight of roughly four hundred pounds. She estimates that, from his feet to the large hump between his shoulders, Rubac is seven feet tall. His body is akin to most cattle: bulky and thick with meat.

His face, which is devoid of fur, has skin that reminds her of natural leather, rough and patterned with inconsistent lines. On each side of his visage is an eye decorated with wrinkles around it, and her gaze widens as she takes in his long horn protruding above his nostrils. It is chipped from knocking against the rocks these past few weeks. She banishes any thought of what it would be like to get run through by such a sharp yet thick horn.

Talia blinks, and Rubac roars in Blot’s direction. The sound is eerily similar to that of a Rancor rather than the baa-like holler of a Reek. It tears through the peaceful atmosphere in a sharp echo before Rubac charges towards the Jawa. With his head down and his horn pointing up, he is about halfway to his goal when Talia shouts his name from her perch.

Immediately, Rubac slides to a stop, his flat feet kicking up dust. She can sense how unfamiliar he is with her voice as his head turns left and right. Inhaling short breaths through his leathered nostrils, he searches for her, and she feels his fear increase a notch.

Pitying the confused Mudhorn, she jumps into his domain, knowing such an action will help him pinpoint her location. Her shawl and tunic flap in the desert air. A surge of adrenaline surges through her, but she remains calm. Not using the Force, she lands with a loud thump. She pushes everything around her into a closet—it is just her and the Mudhorn now.

At her appearance Rubac opens his large mouth and releases another roar. She lifts a hand, reaching for the animal through the Force to soothe his initial fear of her. While softly shushing him, she can feel him resist her like a band of tubas defying a music conductor. His terror of her, an unknown threat, dominates his mind and transitions into attack-mode.

In two seconds, he goes on the offensive, but she has been expecting this reaction. Her legs are already spread out, waiting to leap to the side at the last possible second. The ground trembles beneath her feet as Rubac stampedes towards her. His long horn is lowered, and his eyes are focused on her.

Taking in a deep breath, she orders her body to relax the closer he gets to her. He is fifteen feet away, but she remains where she is with her arms bent, ready to help her jump aside. Now, he is eleven feet. Then eight.

Finally, Talia tenses her leg muscles and leaps out of the beast’s way. The Force quickens her movement. As she uses her hands to complete a single, forward somersault, she can hear Rubac’s horn smash into the canyon’s wall.

Instead of waiting for him to recover, she sprints to the other side of the arena. Her braid dangles behind her as she senses a wave of dizziness from the animal vibrate through the Force. When she skids to a stop and turns around, she is not too surprised to see that Rubac’s aura is still red with hostility. He groans at his unpredicted run-in with solid rock and vigorously shakes his head.

 _“Rubac!”_ she shouts, making sure she is using a clear Jawaese accent. When he shuffles himself to face her, she calls his name again. _“It’s all right,”_ she says.

He growls at her before hurtling in her direction for another attack. So, she repeats her actions from earlier: she waits, she jumps away at the last second, she runs to the opposite side of his domain, and she beckons him to her.

On and on, they play this game of attack and evasive maneuvers for at least thirty minutes. Rubac soon catches on, but she switches up her tactics. His heavy panting goes hand-in-hand with the slight shimmer across his leather face. Meanwhile, Talia regulates her own breathing and heartbeat, relying on the Force to preserve her energy. It refreshes both her body and soul like a flute encouraging her with its cheerful song to keep going. Her plan for Rubac to grow tired and to drop his guard is working.

When he trots instead of races towards her, she does not leap to safety like she has done before. She simply jogs to the side, timing it so well that she is less than a foot away from him. Because his large size prevents him from turning as fast as she can, he is unable to hurt her, let alone touch her, before she is out of range.

Walking backwards so she can keep an eye on him, Talia steers herself to where her Jawa companion has been sitting on the boulder barricade. She notes that Rubac is sniffing the air, probably taking in her peculiar scent for the first time—which is a good sign. This means that he is curious about her, that he is choosing an alternative other than attack.

The rock wall digs into her back as she tries to feel what the Mudhorn is feeling. Telepathy with animals, in her experience, is fairly simple. Over the years she has learned that hunger, fear, pain, and mistrust are common emotions. That is why she has had the most enjoyment in dealing with beasts because people—well, they are more complex and enigmatic.

Picking up impressions of a person’s feelings, or even general mindset, has always been one of her gifts. During her training, her master praised her for it, calling it Force Empathy. It was helpful to her in her various political roles on Onderon, especially when wrestling with the Empire. However, she has made it a rule not to use the Force as an instrument to prod into friends’ and family’s personal thoughts and feelings.

But now with Rubac, she senses that his fear of her is dwindling as his exhaustion levels are rising. Perhaps it is time for her next move.

 _“Blot,”_ she calmly addresses her companion. After he replies, she says, _“Throw down to me a cabbage head from your backpack.”_

Once she has the fresh greens in her hands, Talia tears it up and tosses it to Rubac in thick pieces at a time. The cabbage had been grown in the Sandcrawler specifically for him and the female Mudhorns, and Blot was quite proud of the vegetable. But Rubac is not so impressed at the start since that has been his diet these past few weeks. He sniffs at the chunk of cabbage Talia throws in his direction and refuses to eat.

Though she senses suspicion mixed with fear plaguing his mind, she reaches out to him through the Force. Its peaceful harmony begins to soothe Rubac’s wild emotions.

 _“Easy there,”_ she assures him, her Jawaese gentle and soft. She needs him to get used to not only her voice but also the language. _“You’re all right, Rubac. It’s okay.”_

In the following half hour, she slowly coaxes the Mudhorn to eat. His first bite is tentative, and he keeps his eyes on her as he chews. She waits a couple of minutes before throwing him another piece of his cabbage. Again, he does not devour it right away.

They circle around each other as Talia supplies him with fresh greens. While doing so, she sings her meditative tune with general vocals. She has never found her singing voice to be extraordinary, which is why she usually hums. But she needs Rubac to hear her, to sense her desire to bond with him. Her song is loud enough that it echoes across the canyon. She can feel him trying to cling to his fear and wild nature, fighting her soothing melody.

After she has fed Rubac his first cabbage head, he snarls at her, expecting her to give him more. Underneath her face-covering, she smiles. It has not ceased to amaze her that the way to get to _any_ male’s heart is through his stomach. Yet, feeding time is over . . . for now.

She walks closer to him; he takes a step back. Pressing the boundaries that she made with him, she moves towards him again for a few feet before stopping. He shifts himself, showing her his profile, and the awkward movement reminds her that the right side of his ribcage is injured.

For the first time, she stares deeply at him, her gaze focused on the eye that she can see. As he glowers back at her, tension fills the hot space between them. She has not removed her shawl from her face just for this moment: emotions in animals can be shown in the eyes, and he needs to see that hers convey peace and kindness. The Force rings through the air like a flute begging to lead Rubac’s uncontrolled, brass-band emotions into an ensemble of friendship.

The seconds tick by at a snail’s pace, the intensity rising between them. She stops humming and dedicates all of her concentration to reaching out to the Mudhorn.

 _It’s all right,_ she silently tells him, her thoughts caressing his primary instincts. _Let me in, Rubac._

His eye narrows at her, and he releases a deep growl. When he shakes his head, he breaks their visual connection. Fear has crept into his bloodstream again. It seems that their stare-down has rattled him. He huffs and stomps his padded feet. Talia can feel a challenge beginning to swell within him, so she widens her stance and tells her body to relax.

Not to her surprise, Rubac charges towards her again, roaring so loud that her ears ring. Like before, she waits until the last possible second and jogs to the side out of harm’s way. But this time, she stretches her hand in his direction. As he runs past her, she is close enough that her fingers rake across his fur. It is rough and tangled with a thick layer of baked mud.

By the time Rubac realizes that he missed her and turns around, they are each at one end of his arena. When their eyes fuse together, Talia senses something different about him. Seizing the opportunity, she reaches out to him through the Force, calls his name, and then resumes her meditative vocals. His red aura begins to turn orange then gold, telling her that he is accepting her presence and is not afraid of her as he had been earlier.

An understanding of some sorts develops between them, a bond of respect. Pleased at their progress, Talia slowly removes her face-covering so the Mudhorn can see her completely. The action perks his interest, and she allows her white shawl to remain on her head since she sees no point of baking in the Arvalan sun.

In the next hour, she feeds him another cabbage head. This time he greedily munches on the fresh greens as she hums. He is relaxed while his stomach gradually fills, and she gives him his space as he eats.

After a while, she ends her humming and makes small-talk with Blot Sem. She needs for Rubac to get used to hearing Blot’s voice and to grow accustomed to another humanoid’s presence. At first, the Mudhorn grows anxious during their brief chats, but Talia’s Force-influence calms him down.

She does not test the waters between herself and Rubac until she starts feeding him his third cabbage. The pieces she throws his way lead him closer to her bit by bit. Though she can still feel his suspicion stirring, his need for food wins.

When she gets to his last piece of cabbage, Talia holds it with one hand while removing her shawl with the other. She watches the Mudhorn watch her as she lays both items on the ground, making sure the cabbage is sitting on top of her shawl. Then, she backs away from them.

Rubac eyes her carefully while advancing on the objects. He sniffs at them once, twice, three times before eating the cabbage. His teeth tear into the fresh greens. After he swallows, he nudges Talia’s shawl with his thick snout. He takes a short sniff, pressing his leathery nose into the crisp white material. As he does this, Talia uses the Force to strengthen the understanding lingering between them. Rubac deeply inhales her scent and Blot’s.

With his guard lowered, she seizes this opportunity to walk towards him. Her footsteps are light, and she takes great care not to drag her feet and startle him by the gravelly noise.

 _“Hey, Rubac,”_ she calls out to him in Jawaese, her tone as soothing as she can make it. _“There now. It’s okay. You’re all right.”_

Though he shuffles a few steps away from her, she is glad he does not swiftly retreat. He just backs up, unsure of what she will do. With her eyes staring into his, she lowers herself as she nears her discarded piece of clothing. She retrieves it, straightens her posture, and offers her shawl to the Mudhorn. He hesitates, his gaze flickering to the white material then back to her. The Force hums in her ears, its song reassuring.

Rubac steps forward and buries his snout into her shawl. His aura transitions into yellow, the color of friendship in the Force. Talia simply stays where she is while he nudges deeper into the material. A smile tugs at her lips, and she does nothing to hold it back. Her gaze trails up his long horn, admiring the way the outer bone curves. The Living Force in Rubac is now an energetic brass-band collaborating with her Force’s joyful violin-like music. Together, they keep time with the united beats of their hearts.

 _“Yes, Rubac,”_ she whispers to him. _“Everything’s fine. You’re all right.”_

His nose presses the tips of her fingers. But instead of allowing them to have further contact, the Mudhorn yanks himself away and snarls, thus snapping them out of their shared trance.

 _“What is it?”_ Talia hears Blot Sem call out to her. _“What happened?”_

 _“I’m not sure,”_ she replies. Studying Rubac, who is now several feet across from her, she asks, _“What’s wrong? What threw you off?”_

In order to prevent herself from spooking him more, Talia stands still. Leaning on the Force, she searches Rubac’s emotions. She senses a slight tremor of fear, yet it does not entirely _feel_ like fear. It is something else, which makes her delve deeper and analyze what had just happened. Perhaps Rubac did not like her touch since it is new and comes with its own scent. But he should know her smell by now; he had eaten pieces of cabbage broken by her hands.

Perplexed, she hangs her shawl around her neck. She closes the distance between them, and the Mudhorn does not shy away from her. When she lifts her hand, reaching for him, he growls at her again. She halts.

 _What did I do wrong?_ she wonders, dropping her hand. A loud sniff breaks into her thoughts, followed by another growl. _Okay, he doesn’t like the way I smell. But that doesn’t make sense,_ she reasons, for her shawl contained practically every scent associated with her. Yet it was her hand that Rubac seemed to dislike. _My hand but not my fingers?_ she asks herself.

She looks down at her dirty palm, trying to figure out this conundrum. As her eyes study her leather hand-wraps, it dawns on her that those are what scared Rubac away from her. They must not have embraced the Jawa odor when Blot hugged her. Although she had torn up three cabbages to feed the Mudhorn, the pieces more than likely picked up the smell of dirt since she had thrown them to the ground. Her hand-wraps probably carry the baby’s scent since she held him for hours before coming here. Of course, Vandar is not a threat; however, Rubac does not recognize him, and anything unknown to him is something to fear.

Now realizing that her hand-wraps are the problem, Talia wastes no time in removing them. The ties on her wrists are easy to undo, and she folds the leather pieces within themselves. Afterwards, she tosses the accessory over her shoulder in the general direction of the rock barrier.

 _“Okay, Rubac,”_ she says to him in Jawaese. _“Let’s try this again.”_

With slow steps, she approaches him. He watches as she rubs her hands up and down her tunic as if she is ironing out stubborn wrinkles. Then, she lifts a bare hand, calling upon the Force to ease the tension between them.

When she estimates that they are about ten feet apart, she comes to a halt. She knows that feeding Rubac and using the Force to help tame him are only a couple of factors that can make their bonding successful. The times for her to pursue him are over; _he_ must come to her. _He_ must choose to trust her.

She does not hum her meditative tune, nor does she rely on the Force to influence the Mudhorn. Instead, she simply waits, her mind and emotions as calm as a gentle strum of a harp. She can feel the Force flowing through her like an encouraging symphony, telling Rubac that she means him no harm. A small wind rustles through the canyon; it is peaceful as it stirs up loose dirt from his arena.

Meanwhile, Rubac continues to stare at her before taking a slow step forward. Then, another. And another, until finally, he presses his long horn against her open palm. The bone is warm and textured with mud spots. With a relieved smile, Talia tries to wrap her fingers around his horn, but it is too thick for her to get a full grasp. She murmurs sweetly to him in Jawaese, and he walks closer to her.

 _“You did it, Jedi!”_ she hears Blot shriek with excitement. _“You did it!”_

Rubac must have gotten used to the Jawa’s voice by now because he does not flinch or snarl at the high-pitched interruption. His breathing slows down and soon transitions into contented sighs.

For the next several minutes, Talia pets her new friend. She rakes her slim fingers through his tangled fur and strokes underneath his leathery chin. Victory warms her heart as Rubac allows her to wrap an arm around his head, giving her the chance to practically cuddle with him.

Patiently, she makes her way to his injured ribcage. Her hands are gentle as they glide across his rusty-colored coat. When she reaches his right side, Rubac flinches and releases a snort full of alarm. She shushes him before humming, using the Force to settle his fear of the pain.

After a few moments, she is able to place a hand over his right side. Her heart squeezes when she senses the bruises and cracks in his ribs, and even her humming falters for an interval.

Instinctively, she closes her eyes, concentrating hard on the complex injury. Her connection to the Force is so strong at this moment that she can feel the elements in his bones healing him with every passing second. The Force flowing in her passes onto the Mudhorn, and when she senses that he is no longer in pain, Talia opens her eyes and retracts her hand. Though she feels a little drained, she is rewarded by the relieved sigh Rubac breathes out.

A smile spreads across her lips. If the Mudhorn had been harboring any doubt concerning her, it is officially gone. So, she basks in this moment as she pats Rubac from his hefty belly back to his neck. Half of her mission is complete: she has tamed and bonded with him. But when she glances at Blot Sem, she sucks in a long breath.

 _Time to get him acquainted with Rubac,_ she reminds herself. The Mudhorn nudges her affectionately, and her smiles grows. _But not yet,_ she thinks, wrapping her arms around him.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

_Four hours later . . ._

It is late afternoon, and the sun is casting long shadows in the valley. Corners and crevices look deeper while the azure sky seems brighter. Yet that may be because there is a spring in Talia’s step as she walks side-by-side with Rubac. The bond between them is sweet, but the bond he shares with Blot Sem is even sweeter.

Over the last few hours, she was the bridge connecting both Jawa and Mudhorn, a task that left her quite satisfied. She introduced the former by having him enter Rubac’s arena with a peace offering consisting of more cabbage heads. At first, her new best friend was suspicious of Blot, but that was to be expected. He shied away from the little Jawa, which gave Talia the chance to teach the former to call upon the sliver of the Force in him so he could sense Rubac’s feelings.

For a while, she and Blot walked around the arena, allowing the Mudhorn to get used to the Jawa’s invasion of his domain. Talia chatted with her companion and laughed at his nervous jokes—she needed Rubac to sense through their bond how comfortable she was with Blot and how much she trusted him.

Her patience was compensated when she ushered the Jawa to feed his Mudhorn. The process was quite similar to hers, except Rubac already had an odd connection with Blot due to being trapped in his Jawa-made arena these past few weeks. Since Blot visited him frequently, studying and feeding him, the two had formed a distant understanding. They just needed a personal touch to make their acquaintance morph into something better, and Talia was able to help them out. To her delight, Blot and Rubac have a bond that will last for years.

The Living Force from each of them reminds her of an orchestra coming together to create a united musical number. The loud brass-band energy from Rubac is softened by the charming personality of Blot whose small Force reminds her of a clarinet. Their little accord is made stronger and even smoother when Talia’s own connection to the Force, resembling the strings of a violin, joins them. However, the backbone of their collaboration is the flute-like melody of the Force, fluttering amongst them and echoing across both time and space.

 _“We are almost there,”_ Blot relays in Jawaese, interrupting her thoughts.

She hums in response, thankful their five-mile trek is ending. Being in the sun for most of the day has made her yearn for the coolness of traveling in her ship.

Next to her, Rubac takes in a deep breath through his leathery nose. She senses him picking up an exciting and alluring scent, and a surge of arousal warms his blood. Though she is no Mudhorn, his reaction merely confirms what Blot had just announced: they are approaching the valley where his female counterparts are. They have been in heat, waiting for the right male to claim them.

When Talia feels the eager Rubac quicken his pace, she shushes him and reaches over to pat his furry side. _“All in good time,”_ she assures him.

He has not been this excited since she removed the boulders blocking their way out of his arena. The barrier had been too thick for him to ram into, yet nothing is stronger than the Force. While Talia called upon it to raise the large rocks from the ground, Blot had to calm down the Mudhorn—the latter was becoming too excited at the prospect of freedom. It was test of their bond, to see if Rubac would obey the Jawa and not charge through the opening, forsaking both him and Talia. Blot had been anxious, yet she knew the Mudhorn would not run away.

Five minutes pass. Rubac, she feels, is becoming even more restless. His primal instinct to mate is about to overwhelm him, and nothing on this planet would be able to stop him.

 _“Blot,”_ Talia says loud enough so he can hear her on the other side of their Mudhorn. _“Tell your people to clear the way for Rubac. He’s going to race to your females very soon.”_

 _“I think you’re right,”_ the Jawa replies. The sound of rustling reaches her ears, and she knows he must be searching for his comms stashed inside his rucksack.

While Blot contacts his Clan, Talia searches for her own companions. They had watched her tame the Mudhorn from start to finish and have been tracking their progress through this valley. She wonders if her fellow Mando was bored out of his mind these last several hours and if Vandar slept through most of it.

The sound of distant thrusters from the east catches her attention. She cranes her neck in that direction and spies a flash of silver flying above the valley. Using the Force to enhance her vision, she has a clear view of Djarin holding the baby, his gray cloak flapping in the wind. Vandar is grinning wildly at the ride, and she can sense his glee.

Her gaze follows the duo as Djarin settles them atop a bronze-colored ridge textured by rocks. His jet-pack turns off, and she can see him checking his surroundings. Since he has been traveling ahead of her, she figures that he is a third of a mile away, which means he may have a good view of the area where the female Mudhorns are. And judging by Rubac’s increase of arousal, she believes her estimation is correct. But she would like a confirmation.

Lifting her wristband to her mouth, she hails Djarin and asks, “Can you see the females from where you are?”

_“Yes.”_

_“The way is clear, Jedi,”_ Blot chimes in.

At that moment, Rubac releases a guttural sound and then surges forward, literally leaving them in his dust. The cloud behind him makes Blot sneeze, and Talia waves her hand to clear up the air around her. When it settles, the Mudhorn is out of sight, but she can hear his thick feet echoing across the valley.

 _“And not a moment too soon,”_ she remarks to her Jawa companion.

 _“The females know he’s coming,”_ Djarin reports over the comms. _“They’re acting up. He’s almost there.”_

“Are you coming down?” she wonders, her eyes focused on his small figure.

 _“Why?”_ he bluntly asks. _“Do you want me to?”_

 _Oh, men,_ she thinks, shaking her head in amusement.

“Well,” she tells him lightly, “if you want to avoid explaining reproduction to your adoptive son at such an early age, then I suggest taking him away before the Mudhorns become _intimately_ acquainted.”

A smile had tugged at her lips when she began, and it grows wider when she sees Djarin fly in the opposite direction of the Mudhorns without replying.

“Yes,” she murmurs to herself, “I didn’t think so.”

As he closes the distance between them, she hears Blot walk over to her. He had been chatting to his people via commlink since Rubac raced ahead. His ruby eyes sparkle proudly underneath his hood as he announces, _“I’m going to watch my Mudhorns’ progress.”_

Talia refrains from asking, ‘You mean _everything_?’ Because of her experience with the Jawas on Tatooine, she is all too aware of the fact that his people were known to consummate their unions in public. So, watching Rubac mate with three females is not something that will bother him. But it does her, which is why she simply nods and expresses that she hopes today will result in baby Mudhorns.

 _“I am sure it will,”_ he replies, walking closer to her. _“It was an honor learning from you, Master Jedi. Your help has guaranteed future generations for my people, just like Unah Ses predicted.”_

Though Talia does not feel that she deserves such a grand title, she does not spoil her little friend’s excitement by correcting him. Instead, she kneels in front of him and gives him a grateful smile, saying, _“Thank you, Blot Sem.”_ She leans forward and initiates a hug, to which he accepts. _“I appreciate your kind words,”_ she whispers before pulling away.

When she rises to her feet, Djarin and the baby arrive. His thrusters stir up a small dust cloud after he lands several feet from where they are. He turns them off and strides towards them in his usual swagger. Vandar greets them with a coo.

 _“Now,”_ Blot tells her in Jawaese, _“you and your friends should head back to the Crawler. It’s east of here, just outside the valley. Wex is readying your droids for you as we speak. And he will be thrilled to escort you all back to your ship!”_

After she nods her thanks, the Jawa waves at her and her two companions before running towards his Mudhorns. A euphoric roar carries on the wind, and Talia forces herself to ignore it and its implications.

“You did good, Dewan,” she hears her fellow Mando comment. There is a hint of pride hidden in his raspy voice, and a Beskar helmet cannot stop her from detecting it.

For some reason, the compliment makes her heart flutter. Smiling, she says, “Thanks, Djarin. All in a day’s work.” She hears a quiet chuckle from him as the baby stretches his short arms her way. Instinctively, she plucks him from his guardian, and he snuggles in her embrace. Turning to Djarin, she queries, “You two ready to get out of here?”

“Do you have to ask?” he quips back.

She shrugs her shoulders, suppressing a teasing smile. Though she is relieved that traveling east means the sun is behind them, she is beginning to feel the activities of the day weigh on her. But when she glances at the baby in her arms then at her friend walking beside her, she is filled with a rush of new energy. The synchronization she feels with them is evened out with the pleasurable commotion she senses coming from the Mudhorns.

 _“Through harmony unified with chaos, there is balance,”_ she inwardly quotes the Grey Jedi Code. _“Through balance, there is the Force.”_

 _“And the Force shall set us free,”_ a quiet whisper finishes. The voice belongs to a man, soothing and patient.

 _Yes, Master,_ she thinks as she snuggles with the baby and allows her feet to move her slightly closer to Djarin. _The Force has set us free indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY!! Work is the main reason why I couldn't post up weekly or even every two weeks. February/Valentine's Day is a big deal where I am, and my hours kept piling up. I didn't mind working; it's just that I hated being parted from my story. I felt every single day of not posting, of not writing, of not hearing from you, dear Readers. Inspiration doesn't come to me when I know I only have a day to write or a few hours before I have to go back to work. And then, my brain is exhausted when I get home that I can't get it to transition into creative mode. But work should be slowing down tremendously, and I just learned my hours have been cut this upcoming week. Sooo, my goal is to write as much as I can.
> 
> This chapter proved to be difficult for me, too--which didn't help while being so busy. I had a lot of research to go over, like Jawa culture and language, the Force, animal bonding, etc. It was so fascinating yet overwhelming when I had to figure out what to put where and how I should express it. Talia's POV is still proving to be a challenge for me. Her Force connection demands that she experiences practically everything around her. And then, having the Force speak to her in musical references? Yeah, it's a challenge indeed.
> 
> Again, I can't say "I'm sorry" enough to you all who have patiently waited for an update. I'm striving to write a chapter in a week or a week-and-a-half. I hope I'm forgiven with such a long one.
> 
> I would love to hear from all of you, including my shy, silent readers! And since it's a long chapter, I wouldn't mind longer comments! ;) What was your favorite part? What moved you the most? Let me know in the comments! 'Til next time!
> 
> (P.S. Just a little friendly reminder that the tune Talia hums while she meditates is loosely based/inspired by Steve Jablonsky's "Tessa." Check it out here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vFUZEI6s84)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Bookmark so you'll get informed of updates! Please comment and leave kudos! Don't be a silent reader :) Comments make me want to write faster and to do it often.


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